


Father and Son

by pocketcucco



Series: Father and Son [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-12 17:28:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 64,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketcucco/pseuds/pocketcucco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haytham didn't know he had a son until recently - a grown one, but a son nonetheless. And he's not sure he's ready to take on the heavy responsibility that the title of "Father" carries. Modern AU, because why not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Break for Coffee

He requested that we meet in one of the downtown coffee shops. I found, upon entering, that it was a nondescript place - a place I would have chosen myself, if I'd even known it existed. I ordered myself a drink (coffee, of course, and black, without any of the fancy little trimmings that these places were so keen to offer nowadays) before I seated myself in one of the shop's tiny, dimly-lit corners and ran my finger around the lid of the cup.

He was more than a bit late, and that was already souring my first impression of the boy. I'd come to expect a certain amount of punctuality from those around me in the past few years. It was completely necessary in my line of work; if you were late, you were gone. Or dead. It was simple as that.

I tried not to let myself get too impatient, however. This was our first meeting, and he was bound to be just as nervous as I. Still, I stirred my coffee and kept an eye on the front doors, wishing we would hurry up so we could get this over with. I wasn't exactly bursting with excitement to meet the boy who claimed to be my long-lost son.

The door swung open just as I was thinking that, and he entered with a frigid burst of air and snow. I knew it was him with one glance: he had his mother's hard set eyes, a messy-looking mop of her same hair, and - if I dared to think it - my own expression, though a far more sullen version of it. He caught me looking in his direction, raised an eyebrow, and turned to the counter to order himself a drink. Something about him was panicked, almost. How interesting.

I waited impatiently at my corner, still stirring my untouched coffee, which had surely grown cold since I arrived. The boy - a man, really, if I thought about it; he should have been about between eighteen and twenty by then - was fidgeting, waiting for his drink, hands stuffed in his pockets and his shoulders hunched. Hardly a posture I would condone. I straightened my own back, ran a hand over my hair as he finally took his drink and approached my table.

He paused a few feet away and motioned to me. "Haytham Kenway?"

I stood and offered him a hand. "The same."

He stared at the hand for a moment, then set his coffee on the table and reluctantly took it. His grip was firm, but unsure. I let him take his seat before I questioned him.

"Connor, correct?" I asked with a curious tilt of my head. He took a long sip of his drink and nodded.

"Yeah," he said, eyes lowered to the design on our table. "I'm sorry for just...contacting you out of nowhere-"

But I interrupted him before he could finish. "I'd like to know if you have proof that I am indeed your father."

Connor's gaze snapped up to meet mine, one part taken aback and one part angry. "Proof?"

"Yes."

The corner of his lip quirked. He reached up to touch something at his chest, and before I knew it, he was pulling a pendant from around his neck. He set it on the table, and my breath caught in the back of my throat.

"My mother gave this to me when I was young. She said it belonged to my father," he said, pushing it across the table. "Do you recognize it?"

I did. I touched the smooth metal of the amulet with the tips of my fingers. It had been so long ago, so very long...

"What was your mother's name?" I asked, my mouth dry, though I already knew the answer.

"Kaniehtí:io."

"Ziio."

He nodded again, more enthusiastically than before. "That's right. That was her nickname for- for people who couldn't pronounce her full name."

"I was one of them," I said with a chuckle, thinking back to that frozen afternoon. What had I called her by accident? Gods-diio, or something of the like. She'd laughed lightly - mockingly - at the time before she corrected me.

"I take it you remember?" Connor asked, motioning to the amulet in my hand.

"I...do, yes," I said, holding it up to the light. It was still just as untarnished as it had been the day I gave it to her. Connor and Ziio had obviously taken very good care of it in my absence.

"And do you believe me?"

"Somewhat, I suppose," I said, setting it back between us. It was my last memento of Ziio, and although part of me wanted to take it back for myself, I had to admit - reluctantly, of course - that it was rightfully his.

Connor gave me a look and opened his mouth to protest, but I stopped him with a quick wave of my hand. "I apologize. This is just very...sudden."

"I understand." His eyes dropped back to his drink. He hadn't touched his either. "I would have tried to contact you earlier, but... Ista- I mean, my mom wouldn't have liked that."

"I understand. We didn't separate on very good terms."

He gave me a brief look, one that I had difficulty identifying, before he looked away again, this time to the window, to the falling snow beyond.

"I've heard so much about you that I thought it was finally time to find out who you were," he said, so quietly that I almost didn't hear.

"Well, you've found me," I said. "Is that all you set out to do?"

"No, of course not, I..." But he hesitated, chewing the corner of his lip.

"Failed to think this far ahead?" I finished with something of a grin.

"I didn't think you'd actually agree to a meeting, to be honest."

"I am a man of many surprises."


	2. Missed Calls

A week passed before I heard from Haytham again, and all he sent me was an email with his address (well, I assumed it was his) and a single line: "Sunday at 11:00AM, sharp." I assumed he wanted to meet again, and I wasn't sure if I was happy about that or not.

It wasn't that our first meeting was bad. We talked for a bit after I showed him Ista's (or was it actually his?) amulet, and then I left with the excuse of homework when things got too awkward and quiet.

Haytham Kenway didn't seem that bad. Not as bad as Ista sometimes made him out to be when she was in one of her moods. He was sort of stiff, sure, but I think that comes from his line of work.

I didn't know if I liked him just yet, but I  _did_  want to see him again. I wanted to ask him more about Ista, about their lives before they were separated and I was born. And I wanted to know more about...well,  _him_ , I guess. Everything I'd heard had come from either Ista or Achilles, and neither of them were overly fond of him.

Friday afternoon came in a blur. I got out of my last lecture of the day only to find that, speak of the devil, Achilles me left a voice message. I called him back without bothering to listen to it.

"I was in the middle of a class," I said before he could ask why I hadn't called him back right away.

"I had a feeling," he admitted with a bit of a chuckle. "You didn't listen to my message, did you?"

"No."

"Thought so. I need to know if you can come down on Sunday. I've got something to show you."

My heart thudded in my chest. "Is this about the-"

"Yes, it is. I can pick you up in the morning, if you'd like."

"Of course, I'd-" And then I stopped when Haytham's email jumped to mind. My spirits sank. I could email Haytham back and put off the meeting, I supposed... But I had a feeling that he was testing me. He seemed like that sort of person. If I missed this, then I might not get another chance to see him again.

"I'm...actually busy on Sunday," I said, sullen.

"Busy?" Achilles sounded surprised. "Did you finally make friends or something? Who are they?"

"What do you mean, ' _finally_ '?"

"I'm just saying, boy, you've never been too busy for me before," he said with a good natured huff.

I decided to ignore that. "Sunday isn't good. What about Saturday? Or today?"

"It would take me too long to drive there today. I don't like being out on the roads when it's late," he said. "And Saturday isn't good for me either."

"Maybe next weekend. I could come home for a few days."

"Now there's a fine idea. But you never answered my question."

"What question?"

"Don't play dumb with me, boy. Who's keeping you busy this weekend?"

Damn. I was hoping he'd forget. I fiddled with the phone in my hand for a second, trying and failing to come up with a decent answer.

"It's my business," I decided.

But Achilles was better than that. He huffed again, more frustrated than angry.

"All right, then. I'm not trying to be nosey - I'm just looking out for you. And I'm genuinely curious."

"It's just a meeting with someone."

"On a Sunday? I'm guessing it's not a professor."

"How did you-"

"You sound very wound up."

I fell silent. He didn't have to see me face-to-face to read me like an open book. I shifted my phone to my other ear while he continued.

"...It's not your father, is it?"

Again, I said nothing. But my silence told him everything he needed to know.

"I thought I told you to give up on him! Let sleeping dogs lie, didn't I say that?"

"I just wanted to see who he was for myself. Make my own judgments."

"He is not someone you want to get to know, Connor."

"Maybe I do."

"Stubborn boy," he muttered angrily. "Fine, then. Go meet your father. Bond with him. Make a mess of all our plans."

"I'm not making a mess of anything," I argued. "Are you jealous?"

" _Jealous_?" he spat. "Why would I be jealous of Haytham Kenway?"

"Because he's my father, and-"

"We're not having this discussion over the phone," he interrupted. "Have  _fun_ with your father this weekend. I'll pick you up next Friday and we'll have our talk then."

"Fine," I said, and shut the phone off before he could get the last word in.

Let sleeping dogs lie. I snorted. Was that really his only argument against my meeting with my father? I adjusted the straps of my backpack and stomped back to the dorm building. I shouldn't have told him about Haytham. Should have made up some excuse. Should have hung up before he could ask.

Achilles and I got in our arguments from time to time. This certainly wasn't the worst, but they always left a bad taste in my mouth. He'd taken me in after Ista passed away, when I was still an angry teenager with no direction or motivation. He'd helped me out when no one else would. And even though we clashed from time to time, we always bounced back. Always forgave each other.

I didn't think he'd forgive me for this, though.

He wasn't jealous of Haytham. Not in the slightest.

He was upset - actually, a better word would probably be furious - that I was willingly meeting with one of the Templars he was supposed to be tracking.


	3. Mine and Yours

He was late again. I found myself pacing about the house, pausing every so often to check the clock over the mantle. Ten minutes, twenty minutes, a full half hour. Was he even planning on coming? He'd sent a hasty reply to my message (all it said was "OK", and I'd had half a mind to respond to him with something just as snarky). Come to think of it, his email address was my only connection to the boy; no cell number, no physical address. I had no other way to contact him.

I was about to give up on him completely when I heard a harried knock at the door. I sighed, but opened it with a flourish - only to find a sodden, bedraggled Connor standing in the rain on the other side. His hair was messily tied up, hanging about his face in wet clumps, and the toes of his shoes were coated in mud. I tried not to wrinkle my nose.

"Did you walk all the way here?" I asked as I stood aside to let him in.

"From the bus stop. They were late this morning, sorry."

"...You rode the bus?"

The boy gave me a look as he shrugged out of his heavy, water-laden jacket. "I don't have a car."

"Oh." I hadn't even considered that.

Connor held the jacket awkwardly in his arms for a moment before he set it aside by the door. "Thanks for, uh, inviting me over," he said.

"Of course. I've been curious." I beckoned him to follow with a short wave of my hand. "I'd like to hear more about what you've been up to. And perhaps about your mother, if you don't mind discussing her."

Connor trailed behind me, hands shoved in the pockets of his pants. He couldn't seem to stop himself from staring at my entry hall, the front room adjacent to it, the corridor that led to the kitchen: all tastefully decorated, if I do say so myself, with various pieces of art (mostly reproductions, unfortunately), a few mementos from the family home back in London... No photographs, though. He caught onto this right away.

"You have no pictures of her," he said, his voice strangely flat. Suppressed, almost.

"I do."

"Where are they?"

"I keep them to myself."

He opened his mouth to question me further, but we'd already entered the kitchen and I motioned for him to take a seat at the table in the nook. He lingered there for a moment, watching as I removed two mugs from a cupboard.

"What would you like? Something hot should suffice on a rainy afternoon like this. I have coffee, tea..."

"Water is fine."

Interesting. I poured him a glass and helped myself to the coffee I'd had brewing in the pot. Something told me I was going to need the extra boost.

"So," I began as I set the mugs on the table and took my seat across from him. "I noticed your email had the university name attached to it. You go there?"

"Yes. I'm a sophomore."

"What are you studying?"

"A little bit of everything right now. My core classes mostly." He shrugged lightly, staring into his mug. "I'm not sure what I'm going to major in yet."

I took a short sip of the coffee. "You haven't? I thought you were supposed to by now."

"No."

"Ah."

And then we fell silent, staring at each other, staring into our drinks. It was just like the coffee shop again, but without the busy atmosphere to alleviate some of the pressure. Connor seemed especially miffed; the boy's eyes were roaming, looking everywhere but me.

"Connor," I said, and he looked up. "That wasn't the name she gave you, was it?"

"I was born Ratonhnhaké:ton."

The name escaped me just as Ziio's had. Connor smiled, clearly very amused by my expression.

"Rah. Doon. Ha. Gay. Doon," he said, pronouncing it slower than he had before. I repeated it back to him, and he nodded approvingly.

"My mother said it means 'life that is scratched'."

"Still, perhaps I should just stick to Connor," I said.

"Perhaps that would be best."

The conversation fell into another lull, so I leaned forward on the table. "What made you decide to find me? After all these years?"

He met my eyes then. "It's like I said before. I wanted to know you for myself."

"That can't be all."

"Can't it?"

I hid a grin. The life - hard, determined, bright - in his eyes reminded me so much of Ziio.

"What  _did_ Ziio say about me that made you want to come find me?"

"She said that you were... _are..._ very calculating, sometimes to the point of being cold. That you would help people, but only if you were benefited in the end. And that you hid a lot about yourself from her, and from others, and that was one of the reasons why she left you."

Ouch. She had told me most of this, of course, and hearing it again from her son - from  _our_  son - brought back the memories afresh. I took another drink of my coffee to save myself from having to respond.

But Connor wasn't finished. His gaze dropped again, and he said, "She also mentioned that you could be very gentle. She felt safe in your presence."

I couldn't hide my grin behind my mug that time. "Did she, now?"

Connor nodded. "I always trusted her opinion, but I've been...curious. Especially since she died."

I almost choked on my coffee. "She what?"

"You didn't know? She died several years ago. When I was a teenager."

The mug in my hands suddenly felt heavy, impossibly so. I set it down before it could slip from my hands.

"No one told me," I said, frowning deeply. "All these years, and I thought..."

"Oh," Connor murmured, and I couldn't tell if he was upset or frustrated or a mixture of both. For the moment, all I could hear was the thud in my chest, and all I could feel was the sudden ache in my gut. The kitchen was too hot and too cold all at once. I pushed myself away from the table and began to pace.

"How long ago was this? What happened?"

"I was still a teenager. There was a fire."

A fire? I made my way back to the coffee pot and tried to refill my mug without spilling.

"Why didn't you come to me?" I asked as I made my way back to the table. "Why wasn't I contacted?"

Connor bristled, much to my surprise. "I didn't know you! All I had was a name and a face. You were a complete stranger to me - and you still are, in fact."

Not it was my turn to be angry. "That doesn't change the fact that I am still your father!"

"Would you have taken care of me if I showed up at your door? An angry teenager - a child you never knew you had - who just lost his mother and didn't want to have anything to do with anyone?"

That gave me pause. I bit at my lip.

Connor leaned back in his chair, clenching and unclenching his fists. "I had someone to take care of me anyway."

And that piqued my curiosity. "Who was that, if I might ask?"

"A family friend. My mother knew him, and so did the tribe's elder."

"Who was-"

"It doesn't matter," Connor said, waving my question aside before I could voice it. He was still irritated, upset by the turn the conversation had taken. "What exactly were you up to after my mother left you?"

"Work, mostly."

"She said you were consumed by it. Whatever it was."

"I suppose I was, in those early days. It was the reason why I came here. To the States, I mean."

"What do you do?"

Ah, there it was. The one question I'd been hoping to avoid the entire afternoon. I took another drink from my coffee, though it had long lost its taste.

"You have your secrets, and I shall keep mine," I said with what I hoped was a wistful smile. "Let's just say that it's a sort of...Order, if you will."

"An Order," he repeated, suddenly thoughtful. "And what exactly does it do?"

"We're a group of like-minded gentlemen. And that, Connor, is all you need to know."

"Sounds secretive."

"It isn't exactly, but I don't like to go around talking about it."

"Not even to your own  _son_?"

He was being sarcastic then, but all the same, I couldn't help but chuckle. He seemed surprised by this.

"Not while we're still strangers, as you so aptly pointed out. After a bit more time...well, I suppose I don't see the harm in telling you more about it."

"That would be interesting."

"Indeed." I set my mug aside. The atmosphere of the room wasn't so strong then; it wasn't as pleasant as I'd hoped, but it was much better than before, when the topic of Ziio came up. I made a mental note to myself to avoid her until later. Much later.

Though her death was something I was going to mull over for a very long time. Already I could feel it weighing on my mind, festering like a wound. One that probably would never quite heal.

But I was getting ahead of myself. Connor was looking antsy, and I had a feeling that our conversation had come to an end. I glanced at the digital clock on the stove and found that we'd managed to talk for over half an hour already.

"I should get going," Connor said, right on cue. "I have homework I need to finish before my lectures tomorrow."

"Are you taking the bus back?"

He gave me another one of those looks. "Yeah. I can't exactly walk back."

"It's still raining," I said, glancing out the nearby window and into my backyard. The freshly trimmed grass was slowly being consumed by mud. "I can drive you back to the campus."

"You don't have to do that."

"Perhaps not, but I wouldn't mind."

Connor stared after me for a moment, and I was afraid he'd refuse. But, after some thought, he finally shrugged and said, "All right. Um, thanks. Again."

"It's not a problem."


	4. Welcome to the Brotherhood

Achilles came for me the Friday after my meeting with Haytham. We hadn't spoken since our last angry phone conversation and I could see that he was still a bit miffed.

I waited patiently for him to bring it up. But Achilles simply drove, keeping his thoughts to himself and his eyes on the road ahead. Still, the drive to his estate would take over two hours, and I knew he couldn't stay silent for that long.

My patience was rewarded less than forty-five minutes later.

"How was your visit last weekend?" he asked. There was no anger in his tone; only a genuine curiosity, which caught me completely off guard.

"Okay," I said after a moment's hesitation. Achilles glanced at me from the corner of his eye before he returned his attention to the highway.

"Was it worth putting this meeting off?"

I scowled at him. "You're not going to let it go, are you?"

"You've been looking forward to this since you were a boy. I'm just surprised you'd put it off for the  _Grand Master_  of the Order we're supposed to be fighting."

"I wasn't visiting him as an Assassin. I was visiting him as his son."

Achilles made a tsking noise. "Sometimes I have a hard time understanding you, boy."

"And  _I_  have a hard time understanding  _you_. Wouldn't you want me to get close to him? He doesn't know what I am."

"Yet."

"He won't know."

"And if he tries to sway you into the Order?"

"He won't. He didn't bring it up  _once_  when I met him."

"He will sooner or later. I can promise you that."

"And if he doesn't? What if he just wants to get to know me?"

Achilles gave a dry laugh. "This is Haytham Kenway we're talking about. He'll bring it up in due time. Just you wait."

I fell silent then, my hands clenching into fists on my lap. It probably wasn't a good idea to mention that I'd been emailing Haytham back and forth for the last week; just short messages about classes and the like, maybe four or five in all over the past few days. I still felt strange around him - that familial bond I had expected hadn't quite formed just yet - but he was...interesting. Almost nothing I'd been told.

Achilles said nothing more on the subject as he drove. He asked the usual questions about my classes and what I'd been up to, which I answered. He didn't bring up Haytham again until we'd reached his estate and I was helping him out of the car.

"Today, your father will officially and completely become your enemy," he said. His voice was brimming with an excitement I hadn't heard from him in a long time. "Today is the day we've both been training for."

I couldn't help but share his excitement as I followed him into the house. The building was silent - as usual, unfortunately - but otherwise, it hadn't changed a bit since I left for the university. The Davenport Estate (that's what Achilles liked to call it) was warm and grand, despite the fact that only Achilles and me lived there. Despite that, it was more of a home to me than the reservation had been after my mother passed away.

Achilles led the way to his hidden basement door beneath the staircase. It was cooler down there, and the air smelled of earth and damp. There was a tinge of sweat there, too; remnants from our training sessions so many months ago. I felt a familiar thrill run up and down my spine as I trailed behind him into the room where he kept the majority of his Assassin life's work: weapons, clothing, even printouts of a few of the current Templar leaders in the Americas.

My attention was drawn to the middle of the room, though. Where he kept the white hooded jacket I'd had my eyes on since day I arrived.

Achilles made his way to the wall of Templars first though, and tapped a few of the images with the tip of his cane.

"We're going to start planning our assaults very soon," he said. "We'll start small, so you don't attract too much attention. The Templars have spent years and years thinking that our faction of the Assassins has gone quiet."

"You want me to start right away?" I asked. I was nervous, of course, but excited too. And Achilles caught on right away, because he gave an amused chuckle and shook his head.

"No, no. Not just yet. You're more than ready though. I trust you to do an excellent job."

My heart soared at his words, and I fought to keep my expression neutral. Praise from Achilles was hard to come by, even when I'd lived alongside him for so many years.

"We'll continue as normal for a bit longer. The man I want you to pursue is out on the west coast, so you'll have to wait anyway."

"What about Charles Lee?"

Achilles glanced up at the printouts, at the one of a moustached man with brown, gently tousled hair. His picture was near the top, close to my father's. His second-in-command, and the man who'd-

"Not yet, Connor. He's too powerful."

I opened my mouth to protest, but Achilles shook his head.

"You'll have your chance. I promise," he said. "But for now..."

First he reached for a wooden box that he'd placed atop one of the many shelves lining the walls. He held it in both hands and slowly opened the top.

"These used to be mine, back when I was young and spry enough to use them properly. But now they're yours, boy, and I know you'll make excellent use of them."

He lifted the lid with a sort of dramatic slowness, and my breath caught in the back of my throat when I looked inside.

"Hidden blades," I murmured. They were antique too, not like the makeshift ones I'd used in training. Achilles nodded to me with a half smile, and I reached forward to run my hands across the metal and leather of the gauntlets that covered the blades.

"I'd tell you to be careful, but that would defeat the purpose," he said as I took them from the box.

"Thank you," I said, weighing them in my hands.

"Don't you want to try them out? Go on."

I did as he urged and carefully slipped them over my wrists. They were surprisingly light, even lighter than I'd been expecting. It was strange, but they felt like they...belonged. I flexed my right wrist and the shining blade shot out of its hiding place with a muted  _shick_.

"They suit you," Achilles said. There was a gentle note of something in his voice...pride? He gave me another rare grin and set the box aside.

"You can bring this with you. I have a feeling your RA wouldn't take too kindly to seeing you carry those things around the dorm," he said with another chuckle. He hobbled carefully to the jacket in the middle of the room and stood beside it. I followed him, still finding it somewhat difficult to catch my breath.

"You've earned the right to touch it now," he said.

And I did. I put my hand to the shoulder of the jacket, to the rough fabric of the hood. I thought back again to my first evening in the estate, when I'd tried to approach it and received a strict reprimand from Achilles.

"Don't think you can just come in here, throw those on and call yourself an Assassin," he'd said, and I'd stepped away so fast that I almost tripped over my own feet. Some first impression.

"It's been a long time since then, hasn't it?" he said, echoing my thoughts.

"It has," I agreed.

"You've come a very long way. We both have," he continued. "And now it's time for you to become one of us, fully and totally. Go on. Take the robes. You deserve this moment."

"What, no ceremony?" I asked somewhat jokingly as I took the jacket from its place in the middle of the room. Unlike the hidden blades, it felt heavier in my hands than I'd expected.

"You don't seem the type for all of that. But that changes nothing. You're one of us now - an Assassin."

I gently slipped the jacket on which, to my surprise, fit almost perfectly. It was a bit big, sure, but I'd fill it out in time.

"Welcome to the brotherhood, Connor," Achilles said. How long I'd waited to hear him say those words.

"What do we do next?" I asked, eager to begin my work now that the training phase was over and I was finally a full fledged Assassin. I kept repeating that over in my head: I'm an Assassin. I'm an Assassin. Soon I'd be pushing my way through the Templars, and - at long last - I'd get a chance to meet Charles Lee again, for the first time since I was a child. I eyed his picture on the wall.

"Tonight I'll take you out for dinner to celebrate," Achilles said as he made his way back to the stairs. "And tomorrow you're going to help me around the estate. There are quite a few chores that need doing while you're here."

My stomach dropped. "What about my new duties? What about-"

"Remember what I told you, boy. Those will start in due time. We can't go jumping headfirst into something this big."

"But-"

He held up a hand, and I fell silent once more. "In due time," he repeated, and began to climb the staircase back up to the first floor. "If you want an Assassin job to do, then keep in contact with your father. It wouldn't hurt to know what he's up to and what he plans."

"He's not going to go telling me Templar plans. We barely know each other."

"But you'll know each other just fine soon. I take back what I said about avoiding him. Keep in contact. The connection may prove useful to you in the future."

I nodded, but I wasn't sure I agreed. Not yet. Haytham didn't seem at all threatening to me.

But still. Achilles was rarely wrong. I'd learned that much in my time with him.


	5. Rumors

"Sir?"

Charles' voice shook me from the trance I'd entered when I started replying to one of Connor's messages. I quickly minimized my personal email tab and rose to greet my old friend.

"Charles," I said warmly, clapping him on the back. "I didn't hear you come in."

"You seemed absorbed in your work. I was almost afraid to disturb you."

I almost snorted. My work, indeed. Today I'd been reading about Connor's latest exploits in his English class; they were reading a novel that he found rather boring, and he went into some detail about the flaws in its plot. I'd come to see his messages - though they were usually short, and few and far between - as a reprieve, as a breath of fresh air in the middle of my day. He still seemed awkward, and perhaps a bit put-off time to time, but that was all right. We both needed time to adjust to each other's presence.

Of course, I could tell Charles nothing of this. Not yet, at least. My newfound son had nothing to do with the Order.

"What brings you here?" I asked him instead.

I sat back in my chair while he seated himself across from me, fidgeting with the front of his coat. Something had him on edge; though, to be honest, something always seemed to have Charles on edge those days.

"I was wondering if we would finally get together this weekend. You've been preoccupied the last few."

"This wasn't something you could call or email about?"

"It concerns Church and the possible Assassin issue."

Charles hissed these last words from between his teeth. Veins bulged in his neck. Normally I would have reminded him that he needs to rein in his temper, but instead I found myself leaning back in my chair, trying to bite back an expletive of my own.

"Let's not worry about Church for now. He can be dealt with rather easily," I decided. "It's the Assassin we should be concerned about. You told me that the rumors were false, Charles."

"They  _were,_ but now they're cropping up again. And I think that Church should also be made a priority. Do you even know what he's up to?"

I fixed my subordinate with a stern look. "We'll deal with him  _later._ No, these Assassin rumors - if they even  _are_ rumors anymore - must be dealt with immediately. Do you remember what happened the last time the Order did not take an Assassin-related threat seriously?"

"Unfortunately."

I tried to settle back at my desk. "What have you heard recently?" I asked him after a pause.

"That the east coast division is stirring. I had Hickey look into it, but he's only caught snippets of conversation."

"Those being?"

Charles suddenly looked unusually sheepish. "That there were survivors from the purge."

I started to slam a fist down and just barely managed to stop myself. "We're just hearing about this  _now_?"

"They've kept themselves well hidden."

"Apparently."

I jumped to my feet and began to pace across the office. My mind was racing so fast that I could hardly keep still. If the Assassins rose again, if they tried to interrupt our work-

"They will be destroyed, sir. I'll make sure of it personally."

I glanced back at Charles. In his eyes I could see a fierce loyalty, a fire that roared to angry life. This was why I admired him so much, despite his temper.

"See that you report to me regularly. Remind Hickey that he should be doing the same."

"Of course," Charles said. He stood then and came to place a hand on my shoulder.

"We will not allow them to grow," he said in a vicious whisper. "If there are survivors, then surely their numbers are too small to compete with ours."

"We have to be careful regardless. They'll still have chances to recruit and swell their ranks. We've heard of this happening before in the past."

"It won't happen again."

I allowed myself a small, strained grin. "Excellent. I'll keep an eye on things as well," I told him. "Thank you for coming to speak with me today, my friend."

For a moment, I thought I saw a flash of the old Charles - the younger one, new to the Order and eager to please, flourishing under my praise and instruction.

"You have my word, sir," he said. "Oh, and by the way... Do you have anything new about the site? I know I ask all the time, but I can't help but get my hopes up. Once we're in, we won't have to worry about the Assassins ever again."

I felt myself falter. Ah, the precursor site. My first and perhaps my greatest failure - though the rest of the Order was still oblivious to this. They thought that I was still looking for a way in, thought that I was searching tirelessly at every chance I got. I still hadn't told them that I'd given up on it the day I learned that we didn't have the correct key and couldn't enter the site.

"Still working at it," I said. Charles nodded; I think he was one of the few who still believed my little white lies.

I gave him another satisfied grin and turned back to my desk. I'd expected Charles to leave then, anxious to start his latest task, but he lingered, fidgeting again.

"Spit it out," I said rather bluntly.

"I was curious, sir," he said, fumbling over his words, "because your recent preoccupation reminds me of...of a few decades back. Well, not exactly that bad, but-"

I raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Had I really been that distracted? But Charles continued before I could speak.

"I was only concerned, sir, for the Order and all of these Assassin rumors. We're at a crucial turning point and we'll need your guidance now more than ever-"

"My personal business is just that, and I would greatly appreciate it if you would treat it as such," I said, perhaps a bit more sternly than necessary. Indeed, Charles took a wary step backward before he expression hardened once more.

"Very well," he said, suddenly curt. "I understand. I apologize for prying. As I said, I am only concerned for the Order-"

"There is no need. Nothing will distract me from my work."

"I see." Charles was very clearly irritated, but to his credit, he was containing himself. "I'll contact you again soon. Take care, sir."

"And you as well," I said as he left my office.

I sighed, long and low, once the door closed. Connor had not taken up  _that_ much of my time - certainly not as much as I had allowed his mother to. Perhaps I had been distracted - perhaps even a bit distant - but was that not understandable, given the circumstances? Given the fact that I had only just learned about the existence of my adult son?

Still, Charles and the rest of my Templar brothers didn't know any of that. All they saw was a semi-preoccupied superior, one who - like Charles pointed out, I hated to admit - they all needed at this crucial juncture in our work.

I would have to change things. Throw myself completely back into the Order. They needed me now more than Connor did. Especially if the rumors of Assassins might be true...

But there was nothing I could do about it for the moment. For now, all I could do was sit and reopen the email tab that I had nearly forgotten about.


	6. Abstergo

The manor was very easy to climb. I knew it better than the back of my hand, and in my earlier years I imagined that I could probably scale parts of it with my eyes closed.

Achilles taught me the basics of free running and climbing by having me make my way up certain parts of his home. As I grew older, I found myself climbing it simply because I could; it was an simple, almost mindless task, and the rooftop was one of the few places I could go to be alone.

Today I sat on its edge, taking in the cool sea breeze while I flipped through a few messages on my phone. Haytham hadn't sent me anything in about a week and I was starting to wonder why I even cared. For a few hours I even entertained the idea of setting up another meeting myself - and then I realized how stupid I must've sounded.

I forced myself to shut the phone off and slip it back in my pocket. From the Davenport rooftop I could see parts of the bay; apparently ships had once sailed there, but now it was empty, aside from the remains of an old ship that a neighbor once told me was called the  _Aquila._  I could also see parts of the forests, of the pine trees and the old roads that wove between them. Farther out there were houses and the people I'd come to know since Achilles let me live with him.

Farther still was the reservation where I grew up. I hadn't been there in so long... Part of me wondered if anyone aside from Kanen'tó:kon and my grandmother even remembered me. Probably not.

"Hey! Connor!"

I gripped the edge of the roof a little tighter and glanced over. One of our more distant neighbors was standing below, waving up to me with her free hand - the other was carrying what appeared to be a string of rabbit carcasses.

"Hello, Myriam," I called back. "Hunting?"

She motioned to the rabbits with a proud grin. "Yep. Pretty good catch today. Are you on a break or something?"

"No. Just here for the weekend."

"Ah." She paused for a moment, then smiled. "It's always good to see you back here. I've missed our hunts, you know?"

"Maybe we can go out sometime soon," I suggested. I'd missed our outings more than I realized. "I can come up again in a few weeks."

"Careful now. You'll make Norris jealous."

I felt my face go hot. "I didn't mean it like- I meant-"

But Myriam only threw her head back and laughed. "I understand! It's too easy to fluster you sometimes."

I didn't respond, and she only laughed harder.

"Listen. It  _is_  good to see you again," she said when she'd calmed down. "Achilles says you've been pretty busy lately, so come by whenever you have time. Norris and I would be more than happy to have you."

"Thank you, Myriam."

"Not a problem. Take care now - and don't go falling off the roof again."

"That was a long time ago!"

She chuckled again and gave me a quick wave before she turned away. I watched her go for while before I turned my gaze back to the bay. The sun was starting to set and Achilles would want me in soon.

"I have a job for you tonight," he'd told me earlier. "Now don't get excited - you won't be confronting anyone for a while. For now I'd just like you to go by the Abstergo building in the city."

"That's apprentice work," I'd muttered angrily, but Achilles waved me off.

"Perhaps, but it's still important. Your father won't be in today either. I've already made sure of that. We don't want to tip him off just yet."

"What do you want me to do while I'm there?"

"Just take a look around. Get a feel for the place. The information might come in handy later."

"Haven't you been there before?"

"A very long time ago," he said. His voice dropped, and after that, so did the conversation. I bit my tongue. It was absolute, unspoken taboo to bring all of that up - Achilles' past as an Assassin, especially the times he was with Abstergo - and there I went anyway, running my mouth like I had when I was younger and more naive.

A door closed below me. I looked down and saw Achilles making his way to the car.

"Are you ready?" he called.

I slipped down from the roof and began my descent.

* * *

The Abstergo building in the city is supposedly much smaller than the others around the world, but to me, it seemed impossibly tall and intimidating. I stared at it from across the street, where Achilles dropped me off almost five minutes before.

"I'll be back in a bit," he said before he left me standing there, arms hanging at my sides.

I waited another few minutes before I crossed the road and positioned myself at the bakery just a few feet away. I pretended to admire the pastries and breads while I was actually staring toward Abstergo's entrance; was Achilles absolutely sure that Haytham wouldn't be there today? Maybe I could explain my presence away as pure coincidence, but somehow I don't think he would buy it. Haytham isn't stupid.

I finally pulled myself away from the display case. A few white-suited men and women were leaving Abstergo; at this hour, it must have been near closing time. I leaned against the wall and pulled out my phone, hoping to look as casual as possible.

They passed me without a second glance. I stowed the phone when they were gone and moved even closer.

The glass doors were right there.

Did Achilles want me to go in, or...?

I stood there for a few seconds, feeling like an idiot with my hands in my pockets and my jacket hood flung over my head.

What could it hurt? He wanted information. I'd get him information.

I stepped past those gleaming doors and found myself in the middle of Abstergo's lobby.

In the middle of the Templars' den.

The entire room was a stunning white: white furniture, white walls, white tile flooring. Even the magazines - all tastefully organized across a white table - were devoid of color. The Abstergo logo engraved in one of the walls was the only break in the monotony: it was a bright, bloody shade of red.

It reminded me of the Templar cross.

"Do you need anything?"

I snapped my head around. A secretary at the front desk was watching me with curious - and somewhat irritated - eyes. She twirled a pen between her fingers and nodded in my direction.

"Do you need something?" she said again.

"No."

She looked like she was about to ask me a second question - or tell me to leave, most likely - but was promptly interrupted by the group coming from the elevator.

"-you're not going about this the right way at all.

"'n what do you know?"

Two men stepped into the lobby.

I recognized one of them.

Charles Lee.

My first instinct was to run at him, fists clenched, and punch him so hard that it caved his face in. I almost did this, too - until I remembered where I was. What I was supposed to do.

And, somehow, I reigned that torrent of anger in. I shoved my hands in the pockets of my jacket and forced myself to breathe through my nose, just the way Achilles showed me.

Lee and his companion continued to speak, completely oblivious to me. "'Aytham wants us t' look into tha' thing with the Assas-"

"Enough," Lee hissed, grabbing the other man's shoulder. His gaze swept across the lobby - swept  _right_  over me - and his jaw hardened. "We'll discuss this elsewhere."

The other man shrugged from Lee's grasp. "Fine, fine."

I was pretending to focus on the magazine spread as they passed, but I couldn't help glancing at Lee one more time. His friend was ignoring us both, but Lee - he must have sensed my staring, because he looked over his shoulder and caught my eye.

He crooked an eyebrow.

And he turned away.

He didn't remember me.

That familiar anger welled up in my chest.

My shoulders tensed. My hands came out of my pockets. I took several steps and was almost on him-

A horn honked outside. I stopped dead in my tracks and saw Achilles waiting across the street.

"Maybe it's time for you to go," the secretary said then, breaking me from my trance. It took me a moment, but I bolted back out onto the sidewalk.

Lee and his companion had already melted into the crowd by the time I stepped out into the evening cold. I scanned the walkways, the streets, the fronts of buildings-

"Connor! It's time to go!"

I hissed a curse under my breath and joined Achilles on the other side of the road. He was glaring at me when he got there.

"Look," I started before he could say a word, "I wasn't going to-"

"I saw you, boy. You nearly destroyed all of your training in about two seconds. If I hadn't been there-"

"I can handle myself!"

"Sometimes I wonder, Connor."

I seethed quietly in the passenger seat as he pulled back into traffic. He glanced at me once from the corner of his eye and shook his head.

"I heard them talking about us," I said after a moment's hesitation. "The Assassins."

"Did they?" Achilles' voice was dangerously low.

"The man with Lee-

"Thomas Hickey."

"He mentioned that Haytham wants them to look into something about the Assassins."

"I see."

It was difficult to catch Achilles' expression in the darkness of the car, but I could see the concern in the hard set of his eyes.

"It's fine. They saw me, but they didn't know who I was."

"They  _saw_  you? Connor-"

"They don't know me. They won't remember me. Hickey was too busy talking and Lee was just...ignoring me."

"You walk a fine line, boy."

"At least I still got something."

"You did," he acknowledged with a nod. "Not exactly what I had planned, but I suppose this wasn't a complete waste."

I snorted. Achilles offered me a strained chuckle.

"You still have a ways to go. But you're doing well," he said quietly. "Now I know what we need to do."

"What's that?"

"Keep an eye on our own underground, sparse as it is. And you're going to need to get closer to your father."

"I don't think-"

"This is important. They wiped us out before. They won't hesitate to do it again. This time I want to be able to prevent it  _before_  it happens."

"...I won't let anything happen."

Achilles met my gaze then.

"I know you'll do your best."


	7. Lessons

Connor was late again on the afternoon of our third visit, but at this point I had come to expect his tardiness and didn't bother setting things up until a few minutes before he was originally set to arrive. I'd put more thought than usual into that day's get together, and I found myself feeling strangely...anxious about it all.

Me, anxious. I couldn't help but scoff.

When my son did finally arrive, he stepped into the kitchen and grinned at the kettle, cups, and saucers that I'd set so carefully on the table.

"Tea?" he asked. "I was wondering when it would come up."

I very nearly rolled my eyes. He only seemed to speak more than a single word when there was some sass involved.

"Where you, now? How often have you had tea?"

Connor shrugged his shoulders. "Once or twice. I wasn't a big fan."

"Perhaps you didn't try the  _correct_  tea. I have several varieties here-" I gestured to the packets of tea that I'd removed from the cupboard some time ago, "-so choose what you'd like."

He picked through them for a moment, reading each label with a frown.

"What's the difference?" he finally asked.

My eyebrows must have shot up to my hairline. "The  _difference_? I see I have a lot to teach you, my boy."

I sat down at the table, and Connor joined me after a moment's hesitation. I swore I caught him smirking, though it was only for a fraction of a second.

"Now, pick your tea."

He stared at them again, still scowling. "Which would you recommend?"

"Me? Personally, I always enjoy a good earl grey-"

"I'll try that, then."

I handed him the appropriate packet, took one for myself, and motioned to the kettle.

"Now we pour-"

"I know how to pour water."

"Go ahead, then."

Connor took the kettle in both hands and carefully poured. I half-expected - well, I hoped, in all honesty - that he would slosh water over the rim of his cup so I could chastise him again.

But he did perfectly, and set the kettle back on the table. I poured my own water and removed the tea bag from its packet.

"Set the bag-"

I glanced over and saw that Connor had already torn his own bag out and was setting it in his cup. I sighed.

"Gently, now. Let the flavors steep."

"We just wait? For how long?"

"A while."

Connor eased back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. The boy was not very patient, that much was obvious.

"So. How have your classes been? I haven't heard from you in some time."

I failed to realize just how ridiculous (and paternal) the question sounded until it was out of my mouth and hanging awkwardly between us. But Connor, fortunately, was unperturbed; he was quietly tracing the design on his saucer with his index finger as I spoke.

"They're fine. I have a paper due next week for one of my English classes."

"Really? Have you started it yet? What are you writing about?"

He grimaced. "No. I've barely thought about it. And the subject is Charles Dickens's  _Great Expectations._ "

"Ah, yes. I remember that one. It's been years since I read it, of course, but it was rather enjoyable from what I recall."

"I thought it was stuffy."

That brought a wry smile to my lips. "Stuffy?"

"Sort of pompous, I guess." He shrugged again, still drawing out that design on the cup. His finger - callused and hard, I noticed then; not exactly the hands of a student - ran across the swirled blue and white lines. "I don't really like reading books from that period."

"Understandable. It was a completely different time."

"Mhm."

A silence fell between us, though I noted that it was not nearly as uncomfortable as our past ones. Connor was staring into his cup then, thoughtful.

"Your hands," I said, motioning to them with a sweep of my own. "Do you play sports?"

Connor perked up. "No. Why?"

"Your fingers are callused. Play guitar, perhaps? Another string instrument?"

"Oh." He held up his hands then, examined them in the warm afternoon light. "No, neither of those. My guardian owns a few horses. I spend a lot of time working in the stables when I go home for break."

"Who is your guardian?"

Connor's mouth set to a thin line. He seemed conflicted, and for a moment I thought he might respond-

"Do you think the tea's ready by now?" he asked instead, moving smoothly to another subject.

I was curious, but I decided to humor him. We were finally making headway with our tentative relationship, and I wasn't prepared to spoil it.

"I believe so," I said, taking my own cup in my hands. "Now, don't hold yours like that, you're going to drop it..."

The remainder of the afternoon passed rather amiably. We talked about school, and I told him briefly about my work - skimming over the sensitive details, of course. He never brought up his guardian again, and I did not question him further. I was painfully curious, but the boy would bring it up on his own time.

"I have something for you," I said as he stood to leave. Nearly two hours of light conversation (and tea lessons) had passed us by before he realized that he needed to be back on campus.

Connor paused in the front room as I returned to the kitchen. I had almost forgotten about the photograph I'd set on the counter; it was hidden away behind a few other cups and saucers that I'd neglected to set back in the cupboards.

I handed him the photograph, and my son's guarded expression seemed to melt. He ran a finger across the surface of it.

"This is..."

"Your mother and I a few months after we met. That was a little over two years before you were born."

He stared at the picture with solemn eyes. Ziio and myself were seated on a park bench; my arm was around her middle, and she was leaning against me, laughing as she pointed at something in a book she held between us. A mutual friend had taken the photo for us long ago, and the picture's age showed in the yellowing at the corners and the crease through the middle.

"Central Park in New York," I provided when I saw him look up. "It was my first time in the city. She was showing me around."

"I see," he said quietly. "This is... If this is yours, I can't-"

I held up a hand. "No. Take it. I have a copy of my own."

"I... Thank you."

Connor smiled then: warm and radiant, just like his mother. I saw her in his eyes.

And I think that was one of the first true, genuine smiles I had seen from my boy.


	8. Information

A room full of Animus units hummed peacefully beneath me. I watched them from my vantage point on the second floor: the scientists moving back and forth between units while men and women were strapped into them, eyes closed and dreaming of lives long past. It was quiet, save for the gentle noises of the machinery and the whisperings of the scientists to their eager assistants.

There was a time when I was one of those assistants, working patiently as Reginald Birch accessed the past of another Assassin.

There was also a time when I was the Assassin tuned into the Animus.

But that was so long ago that I do not care to think back on it. I'm too high up on the social ladder now to be bothered with running the Animus units, or to deal with the Assassins themselves. I prefer to observe from afar.

It was William Johnson who eventually found me at my perch that day. He clasped his hands behind his back and watched for a moment before he spoke.

"Good afternoon, sir," he said after a moment's pause.

"Good afternoon, William. What's on your mind?"

"Well." He hesitated briefly, gaze flickering from the Animus units to me. "I suppose I should start by apologizing for looking into your personal affairs."

I felt the corner of my mouth twitch. "Dare I ask what you mean by that?"

"It was purely by accident, I assure you. Thomas has been fishing about for information in the underground and I...well, I discovered the existence of your son. Did you-"

"I already know about him, yes. His name is Connor," I said, feeling more than just a bit uneasy. "Does Hickey know about this? Or Charles? Or, god forbid, Church?"

"Not that I'm aware of. Thomas might have an inkling, but I haven't shared the information with anyone else just yet."

"Good. Don't tell them."

Johnson raised an eyebrow, but gave me a nod. "I see. Does your son know that you're...?"

"No. And I would prefer to keep it that way," I said as I stared down on the scientists, the sleeping Assassins. "He's not ready yet."

"Understandable. I was just curious, sir, if you ever considered putting him through one of the tests? He shares your DNA. He might have something more to offer."

I sighed quietly. "I have thought about it, to be perfectly honest," I admitted. "Though I highly doubt that he would give us more insight than I already have."

"He might be more suited to the Animus than you were."

My frown deepened. I imagined Connor going through all of that - the endless nightmares, the pains of the bleeding effect, the horrors of the Animus that managed to creep into your every day life - and I felt...an odd sense of guilt. Normally I cared nothing for the Assassins who were forced into the machines, but the thought of my son going through everything I had...

"It would all be for the good of the Order, sir. Perhaps he could join us someday when it's all over."

"Perhaps," I agreed.  _That_  I had thought on, briefly. Connor might make an excellent Templar. He seemed intelligent enough, and I was sure that he was physically fit. The boy was in the prime of his life, after all, and he came from good genes.

But I wasn't ready to scare him off with talk of conspiracies and past memories just yet.

"I'll think on it a bit more," I told him. "But William... How did my son's name come up in your work? He's not connected with the Assassins, as far as I know."

"But he is."

For a moment it felt as though someone had dropped a brick in my stomach. I turned to face my old friend for the first time, my mouth thinned to a line.

"Oh?"

"He is staying with Achilles Davenport. I trust you remember him?" Johnson asked, smiling ruefully.

My grin mirrored his. "All too well. That blasted man... I thought we'd dealt with him already. Why is Connor with him?"

"Apparently he was connected with the wo- your son's mother's tribe for some time before we brought him in. They were old friends. I'm assuming she asked him to care for Connor after she passed."

"But why Achilles and not someone in her tribe? Someone that he grew up with, someone he trusts?"

"Perhaps she trusted Achilles more than we know."

I leaned forward on the railing in front of us, deep in thought. Why Achilles Davenport, indeed? Had he already managed to rub off on my son? Was he teaching him the ways of the Assassin Brotherhood? Davenport knew full well what sort of fate awaited both him and Connor if he was.

"Do you suppose he broke his promise?" Johnson asked, his voice low, almost grim. "Would he risk your son's life like that?"

"I doubt it. But still..."

"May I make a suggestion, sir?"

"Please."

"Take your son in. Get him out of that toxic environment as soon as possible. We can send someone to deal with Davenport by the end of the week."

"If only it were so easy," I said with a dark chuckle. "Connor is a headstrong and stubborn lad. Like his mother. It would be very difficult to pull him away from someone who helped to raise him. We didn't meet until a few weeks ago. I...didn't even know he existed until he sent me a message."

"Oh," Johnson said with a note of defeat. "That does complicate things."

"That doesn't mean I am giving up. I will see what I can do. If I can't pull him away from Davenport, then perhaps I can still find out if he's been taught the ways of the Assassins. I can put a stop to it before it's too late."

"And then bring him in for the tests?"

I clenched my jaw. "I will think on it. One step at a time for now."

"Indeed."

Johnson fell silent again, as did I. My mind was a flurry of activity, of thoughts, of doubts and horrors. Why did Ziio put him in Achilles's hands? Was she planning something? She knew full well that I was a Templar - that was one of the main reasons as to why we had separated - but would she put our son's life in danger like that?

She most likely knew what happened to Achilles. She knew that we had brought him in and tortured the Assassin secrets out of him. She knew his promise not to recruit or practice the Creed.

But still...

"I will leave you to it, sir," Johnson said after a few tense moments.

"William," I started unevenly, "thank you for sharing this with me."

"You're welcome."

I stared down at the Animus units for a while longer after Johnson left my side. The men and women below were still hard at work, oblivious.

Oh, Ziio, I thought, putting a tired hand to my face. What were you thinking? Why do this to our son?

Perhaps there was still time. I could still put a stop to it all before Achilles went too far - provided he was even sharing Assassin secrets with Connor. There was still a chance that he kept his promise...

But I could take no chances.


	9. A Crafty Man

I found myself back on Achilles' roof a few days after I saw Haytham. It was a cool autumn morning, and the manor walls were slick with frost. I took my time climbing. I had nowhere to go and nothing else to do.

The sun was just barely over the horizon when I finally made it to the top. I reached into my pocket and removed the picture that Haytham had given me: the one of him and Ista, together and happier than I'd ever known them.

Ista told me a few stories about Haytham when she was still alive. I remember her telling me that he was a man with good intentions, and that he was brave and strong. But he was cold too; and she could deal with this at first. But at some point in their relationship he'd frozen over, and she lost sight of the man she fell in love with.

Looking at the photo, though... There was still love there. And warmth. I could see it in both Ista and Haytham's eyes.

Where did it all go wrong?

I'd stared at the picture so much since Haytham gave it to me and I still didn't have an answer.

Maybe one day I could ask Haytham for his side of the story.

Maybe.

I climbed back down when I knew Achilles would be awake and ready for the day. The Old Man was waiting for me in the kitchen when I made my way back inside, brushing the dew from my clothing.

"Good morning, Connor," he said, absently stirring his oatmeal. "Up to anything today?"

I picked through the cabinets until I found an apple. "We're not training?"

"You're a full-fledged Assassin now. No need for that unless I think you're slipping." He grinned at me over his bowl. "And you're not, are you?"

"Of course not."

"Good."

Achilles set his spoon down while I worked at the apple. "Connor," he began, and I knew immediately from his tone that it wouldn't be something I wanted to hear, "I didn't ask you about your visit yesterday."

I chewed for a moment longer than I needed to. "It was fine," I said. "And no, he never brought up his work. Not really. We just talked about school. Stuff like that."

He raised an eyebrow. "'Not really'? What do you mean by that?"

"He sort of talked about it but he was...very guarded. He said he worked in technologies."

"That's what Abstergo is known best for, besides pharmaceuticals," Achilles said, his chin resting on his carefully folded hands. "You didn't ask him about it?"

"No. I don't want to make him suspicious. And...I'm visiting him because I want to."

Achilles was quiet for a long time. I started to fidget with the remains of the apple in my hand.

"I understand. He is your father," he said quietly.

"And I understand that you want to keep tabs on him, but-"

"Why did you wait until now to contact him?"

"Because I..."

I stopped. Bit my lip. The words caught in my throat and stayed there. But Achilles waited patiently, his gaze thoughtful and...gentle? Curious? It was hard to tell.

"I...don't know, really. I guess I was intimidated. Everything I knew about him was either from you or my mother. I wanted to see the real Haytham Kenway."

"I see. And is the real Haytham Kenway what you were expecting?"

I thought about that for a moment. I wasn't sure what I was expecting at first, to be perfectly honest. Would he be as menacing and dark as the Templars were always made out to be? Would he be cold, like Ista said he'd become?

I could see a sort of coldness there, sometimes. But there was something else about him. Something...not fatherly, exactly, but I could see a sort of warmth when he spoke to me. Like he was finally starting to get used to me, as I was to him.

"No," I finally said. "He's not. Not at all."

Achilles watched me for some time. "I can see you mean that in a good way."

"I guess." I shrugged again. "I don't know. My head's a mess."

"Understandable. A lot has happened these last few weeks. You met your father and you've become a full member of the brotherhood. It is a lot to take in," Achilles said as he pushed himself to his feet. I took his cane from beside his chair and handed it to him.

He reached up to put a hand on my shoulder. "I know I don't say it that often, but I'm proud of you, boy."

Rare emotion welled up in my chest. Achilles never admitted these sorts of things, but when he did, I couldn't help but feel...well, proud of myself as well.

"Thank you," I said, hoping to keep the tremor from my tone.

Achilles patted my shoulder once before he left my side. I was about to speak again - to ask if any of the neighbors had stopped by asking for help, or something of the like - when my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and checked the caller ID. And I frowned curiously.

It was Haytham. Speak of the devil. I left Achilles, pressed 'accept', and put the phone to my ear.

"Hello?"

"Connor. Did I wake you?" he asked with something like arrogance in his tone. I couldn't help but roll my eyes.

"No. I've been up for a while now."

"Ah. Productive. But I would expect no less."

We both hesitated for a moment. I glanced back in the kitchen, where Achilles was pretending not to listen as he set his bowl and spoon in the sink.

"What is it you wanted?" I suddenly asked; and maybe I sounded too harsh, because Haytham cleared his throat before he continued.

"I was actually curious if perhaps you would like to stay with me for a weekend."

His request was so sudden that I found myself at a complete loss. We'd only known each other for a month at best, and in that time we'd only met about three times. Did he already feel  _that_  comfortable around me? I fumbled for words for a moment, and Achilles finally lifted his head to look me in the eye. He raised a questioning eyebrow, and I waved him off before I stepped into the hall.

"I apologize," Haytham said before I could respond. "It sounded like a good idea a while ago and now I realize how foolish it is."

"No. Um, no," I said with an awkward cough. "It's fine. Really. I think it might be...interesting."

Haytham gave me a dry laugh. "You don't have to lie. Listen, maybe it would be better if we just-"

"No, I'd like to stay over for a while," I said before I could stop myself. Some part of me disagreed; it was too early, too soon, too out of character for Haytham - or what I knew about him, anyway.

"Really?" he asked, clearly surprised. "Well, that's... I'm glad. When is your next free weekend? I could pick you up from your dormitory or your...guardian's house."

"The dorm is fine. And I'll be free in about two weeks."

"Excellent. I will email you about it by Wednesday."

We hung up a while later, after we both tried (and failed) to make small talk about the weather, about our last meeting, about what kind of homework I had for the week. I wandered back into the kitchen then, mentally preparing myself for Achilles's questions.

"It was Haytham," I said before he could ask.

"I see. He invited you over again, I take it?"

"For a weekend."

Achilles frowned. "Already? You two just met."

"Exactly what I was thinking," I said, taking a carton of orange juice from the fridge and a glass from the counter. "Do you think he knows something? He sounded...awkward. Like he wasn't sure, either."

"I doubt it, but with Haytham Kenway, you never know. He's a very crafty man."

I took a sip of the juice. "Hm."

"I take it you're going?"

"Yes. I think it might be a good idea," I said, tentative. "I can always ask him to take me back to the dorm if something goes wrong."

"I suppose." Achilles hesitated at the sink, hand still resting on the tap. "I know I shouldn't be worried about this, but I am. That man is planning something. I can feel it."

"It might just be what he says it is: a visit."

"Yes, but..." The old man sighed and shook his head. "I know you'll be careful. But if any of his fellow Templars show up-"

"I'll hide myself."

"Good."

I tilted the glass back and forth in my hand. That feeling - the Assassin's instinct that Achilles had instilled in me with years of training, perhaps - was rising, growing stronger. I looked to Achilles for more advice, but he was silent, leaning against the countertop.

"Watch out for him, Connor," he finally said as he pushed himself back to his uneasy feet. "That is all I can say for now."


	10. Ignorance

A new Assassin - one that had been caught on Hickey's information from the underground - had been captured and brought to Abstergo's headquarters. I received the call on Sunday night, shortly after hanging up with Connor.

I was ecstatic, to say the very least. For the moment, our Animus units were occupied primarily by volunteers and the very wealthy; no actual Assassins had been placed under observation in several weeks, given the fact that the majority of the east coast division had been decimated several decades prior.

The entire Animus section of the building was abuzz when I arrived at work the following morning. Scientists and their assistants had all but abandoned their stations to get a look at our newest acquisition, and since everyone else seemed suddenly busy, it fell on me to calm the masses.

"Back to work, gentlemen," I told a group of men clamoring about the elevator exit. Our newest subject was up on the tenth floor - the private wing, where we questioned possible Assassins - and no doubt they were hoping to catch a glimpse of the young man or woman. "I know you have plenty of work to finish. Get to it."

They dispersed with respectful but hesitant nods. I boarded the elevator, swiped my identification card, and waited patiently as it brought me to the private wing.

A few more of my employees were hiding out in the corridor, talking amongst themselves in whispers. They scattered as I passed.

I wanted to shake my head, to appear more exasperated so they would get the point, but it was hard to be upset with them on a day like that one. I still remembered the years when I shadowed Reginald through the building, hopeful and excited each time we brought in a prominent Assassin for review. I was more experienced now, to be sure, but I could still recall being in their shoes.

Johnson was waiting for me outside what I presumed to be the new subject's room, given that it was swarmed by even more employees. Johnson himself was ushering them away with frantic waves of his hand, but they paid him little mind until I stepped forward and cleared my throat.

"Ladies and gentlemen," I said, stepping easily through the crowd, which parted like fish from a shark. "We are in the midst of a very important experiment, and none of you are needed here for the moment. You can be sure your supervisors will hear about your absences if you do not return to your positions immediately-"

I turned and most of them had cleared away. Johnson shot me a grateful smile.

"I didn't think they'd ever leave," he said.

"Today is exciting. I can hardly blame them."

"Indeed."

Johnson put a hand on my shoulder and we entered the room together. It was stark white, as the majority of the Abstergo building was, but from the windows we had a magnificent view of the city beyond, of the clear blue sky and its few scattered clouds. There were few creature comforts here; several chairs, a desk for the lead scientist. An Animus unit hummed in the center. It was empty for the moment, but I knew our subject would be there soon.

The lead scientist stood as I entered. "Mr. Kenway."

"Benjamin," I said, giving my colleague a polite incline of my head.

"The subject is on his way here. He just woke up a while ago," Church said, nodding absently to the adjacent bedroom. Each of the private Animus rooms had one; when I followed Church's gaze, I could see another man beyond the pane of observation glass, shaking his head blearily. Charles and another few scientists were with him.

"Tell me more about our guest. You were too rushed on the phone last night," I said.

"Of course." Church shuffled through a few of the files on his desk and brought them to me.

"His name is Jacob Zenger. He's been hiding out in New York for some time now - not sure how many years exactly. We only just became aware of his presence, thanks to Hickey."

"You're sure he's the Assassin we're looking for?"

"Not quite, sir," Johnson answered then. "He's affiliated the Assassins. With Achilles Davenport, to be precise. Thomas caught him leaving the neighborhood sometime ago."

"That is good enough for now, I suppose," I conceded, setting the files aside. They told me little more than Church and Johnson already had: the man was originally from Europe, and he had a wife and child back in the city. How long before they would raise the alarm? Or had Hickey already taken care of that?

I was about to ask Johnson this when Charles led Zenger from his room. The man was still dazed, the red hair of his moustache limp and frayed, but I could see a hard resolve in his eyes. His hands were clenched at his sides, and if looks could kill, we all would have been dead before any of us could raise a hand.

"Welcome, Mr. Zenger," Church said, bringing a clipboard to the Animus unit. His assistant hurried to bring it to life.

"Not much of a warm welcome," Zenger said, bringing a hand up to rub the back of his bald head. There was a red mark there, in the form of what I presumed must have been a baton, or some other sort of blunt object. I frowned. Church wasn't supposed to be using too much force with the subjects... I made a note to speak with him later, in private.

"It was rather difficult to give you a warm welcome when you were trying to fight us," Charles said then. His voice had taken on a certain darkness, one that I had not heard since his last interrogation with a supposed Assassin. I was loathe to admit it, but it chilled even  _me_  when he spoke. I could see that his tone had a similar effect on Zenger, who put up his best front, though the quirk of his lips betrayed him.

"What did you expect? You came bursting into my home out of nowhere-"

"Never mind that. Please, have a seat," Church said with a dismissive wave of his hand. The Animus had hummed to life then; its panels lit up with a soft blue glow, and the headpiece slid away to admit Zenger. The man stared at it dubiously.

"What in the  _world_ is that thing?" he asked, voice low.

"An Animus unit," I said. Zenger turned his gaze to me.

"Haytham Kenway," he said suddenly.

"You've heard of me, then."

"Few in my line of work haven't."

"I take it to mean that you're referring to the Assassins?"

"I work security at a high school. I'm sure your little file says that," he said, nodding to the papers I still had clutched in my hand. "A lot of the kids have your Abstergo things nowadays. It's a rare day when I don't hear the term being thrown around."

"Hm," I hummed thoughtfully. "My name isn't usually associated with the entertainment side of the business."

Zenger had nothing to say to that.

"Shall we begin?" Church suddenly asked, breaking the thick silence that had settled over us. "Mr. Zenger, if you please..."

Zenger stared at the Animus. "I'm not-"

"All you need to do is lie down. It's completely painless, I assure you," Charles said.

"I'm not getting on that thing."

Church breathed a quiet, dramatic sigh. "If you insist." He nodded to one of the bodyguards nearby.

He reacted immediately. The man grabbed onto Zenger's arm and steered him to the machine. It took Zenger a moment to process what was going on - he was still dazed after a good dose of sedatives, no doubt - but when he did, he struck out with his elbow and landed a neat blow on the bodyguard's abdomen. The man hissed, released his grip ever so slightly, and Zenger slipped away.

Church shuffled back, arms raised to defend himself as Zenger vaulted over the Animus and struck out toward him. Charles, fortunately, was not so cowardly; he punched Zenger once in the chin, again in the chest, and grabbed him forcefully as the man doubled over with a grunt of pain.

"Well done, Charles," I said, stepping forward. "Church, if you find that you cannot keep the subject under control-"

"It won't happen again, sir," Church said hastily.

Charles steered Zenger onto the machine while Church typed a few commands into the on-board computer. His fingers were shaking lightly. I couldn't help but scoff. What had Reginald seen in this man? I'd known Church for several decades then and I still found little merit in his presence. He was intelligent, to be sure, but he was a coward, and-

"We're ready to begin," Church said, breaking me from my line of thought.

"Very well. How far back are you going?"

"Not far at all. A few years - back to the point when he should have been meeting with Achilles, if the two knew each other."

Johnson raised an eyebrow. "We're not checking on his ancestor's memories?"

"That's not  _all_ the Animus is good for," Church said with a pretentious grin. "There's no need. For now we just need proof that Davenport is still meeting with Assassins. Recruiting them. We can learn more from there."

"Ah."

We gathered around the computer while Charles and the bodyguard strapped Zenger into place. The man was still struggling, but something about him seemed dull, muted, as though he was finally giving up.

"Let's see... This should do," Church said as he typed a date into the unit. The headpiece slid back over Zenger's face and blinked. Charles joined us as a series of images materialized on the screen.

A house filled with children, all clamoring for their haggard mother's attention.

A battlefield strewn with bodies.

A skyline blotted grey by smoke.

A city - I recognized it instantly as New York - materializing on the horizon, bright and welcoming.

A woman's gentle smile.

The laughter of a child.

Church growled an obscenity under his breath. "Damned thing. He's fighting it."

"We should take him back offline. Give him more of a chance to recover," Johnson suggested.

"There's no time. We-"

I remembered this. I remembered it all too clearly, and I knew instantly what Zenger was going through: a turmoil of emotion, a sort of sensory overload. I stepped away from the others.

"Mr. Zenger. Do you hear me?" I said over their voices. They stopped immediately.

"Mr. Zenger. I need for you to calm down. Breathe slowly. Can you do this for me?"

Zenger, of course, made no response, but I could see the flicker of his eyes moving behind closed lids.

"Breathe, Mr. Zenger. The Animus will not hurt you unless you allow it to. Calm yourself. Empty your mind..."

I could see the images on the computer screen slowing, becoming clearer.

"Excellent work, Mr. Zenger. Just keep breathing. Focus on that and nothing else. The rest will come naturally," I said, ignoring the curious gazes of my colleagues.

"Mr. Kenway," Charles breathed. I shook my head.

"Now is not the time to explain. Look," I said, pointing back to the screen.

The picture was nearly crystal clear. Zenger was in a mansion of some sort, one adorned in a classic style that I recognized vaguely as colonial. He was standing in the center of what appeared to be a living room, while Davenport was seated beside a magnificent fireplace.

Davenport did have good taste; I'd give him that.

Zenger was the first to speak. "I believe it would be best to take action soon," he was saying. "The Templars are not stupid. They'll put two and two together before long."

"I'm aware of that," Davenport said, lifting his tired hand to massage his temples. "Still..."

A door slammed shut. Davenport and Zenger looked up.

Someone else entered the room. He spoke, but I couldn't quite hear the words coming from his mouth.

"Achilles," the newcomer said. He stopped when he saw Zenger and gave him a polite nod. "Hello, Mr. Zenger."

Zenger straightened. "Hello, Connor. Back already?"

"We were let out early today."

Davenport motioned to the empty armchair beside him. "Have a seat, boy."

My entire body went cold. I could see Johnson looking urgently at me from the corner of my eye, but I made no move to respond. I feared that he might see the expression on my face, see my surprise, my fear.

Davenport, you bastard. Was he really putting Connor's - my  _son's_  - life on the line by trying to induct him into that damned Assassin brotherhood? Just what exactly was that fool thinking? Connor must have been a high school student at the time of this memory. No more than a teenager.

My chest tightened, and my breath caught in the back of my throat. I couldn't hear them speaking anymore.

But wait.

Connor was taking something from his backpack. A slip of paper. A report card of some sort? He was showing it to Davenport, who nodded approvingly.

Perhaps I was wrong. It was possible that they had kept my son in the dark all this time. That he wasn't a part of all of this. That-

"Who is that boy?" Church suddenly said, pointing to Connor.

"I'm not sure. I was not aware that Achilles took in strays," Charles said, eyes narrowed. I had half a mind to reach out and grab him, but I restrained myself with considerable effort.

"Something else to look into, I suppose," Church said.

"I doubt it's necessary."

Both men turned to stare at me. Johnson, on the other hand, was looking carefully away, at Zenger.

"What do you mean, sir?" Charles asked. "He might have heard something. We could-"

"Let him be for now. I highly doubt that Davenport would have said anything of consequence around a teenaged boy."

"He should be older now. An adult. What if they've trained him?"

I faltered then. "I still-"

"I think it would be worth looking into, don't you?" Church prodded. There was suspicion in his gaze, sharp and accusing.

"I will speak to Hickey about it," I conceded after a long moment of silence. " _You_ will continue to work with Zenger."

"You're not staying? Don't you want to see what more they have to say?"

"I have matters to attend to," I told them, turning briskly on my heel before they could stop me.

If our plans still worked out, then Connor would be coming to stay with me that coming weekend. It would give me a chance to speak with him, to dig deeper into his relationship with Achilles Davenport without (hopefully) scaring him off.

It would also be a chance to save him if he was not as ignorant as I thought.


	11. Ship in a Bottle

Haytham came for me in the early evening, just as the sun was beginning to set. I waited for him outside my dorm building, a backpack thrown over one shoulder and my hands clenched in my pockets. I'd tried all week to convince myself that everything would be all right - that it would just be a simple weekend get-together - but I still couldn't stop myself from worrying.

He was my father, but he was still a highly respected member of the Templar Order - and I was still an Assassin. Our shared blood could never change that.

I took a deep breath to steel myself. A group was playing with a frisbee on the lawn across from the dorms; I watched them for a while, even thought about joining them to blow off some steam, until I saw a familiar black car stop beside the curb.

The passenger window rolled down and I saw my father's face. "Are you ready to go?" he asked, eyebrow raised.

I opened the door, tossed my backpack in, and sat down. The window rolled back up and I felt the sudden sensation of being trapped.

Haytham glanced at the backpack on my lap before he pulled away from the building and started down the road. "Do you have everything you need in there? Should we stop by your guardian's house?"

"I travel light," I assured him.

He almost seemed disappointed when he replied. "Ah. Very well."

"It'll only be one night."

"Of course."

Haytham was quiet after that, his hands clenching and unclenching around the steering wheel. The stereo was on, but it was so quiet that I could barely tell what was playing - some kind of old rock song that might've been popular in the '60s. Weird. Haytham didn't seem like the type.

"You finished your paper last week, didn't you? The one on  _Great Expectations_?" he suddenly asked.

"Yeah."

"What did you think of it?"

"The book? Pretentious, like I said."

I turned and caught Haytham's eye. He was grinning carefully.

"How unfortunate. It was one of my favorites when I was in school. I didn't think it was  _that_ pretentious."

"Maybe...however many years ago," I said without thinking.

He chuckled. "Oh, Connor, you don't think I'm  _that_  old, surely?"

That was all it took to break the tension that had built up between us over the past few weeks. Haytham asked me about a few of my other classes - "What are they teaching you in history right now? Talk to me as soon as they bring up the American Revolution. The professors in this country tend to fluff it up in favor of the Yankees." - as we drove through his neighborhood, up his driveway, and into the garage.

"Is anyone picking you up tomorrow?" he asked once he'd cut the engine.

"Trying to get rid of me already?"

"Of course not. I was going to offer to drop you off myself."

"I was counting on it."

That effortless grin again. He pulled himself from the car and slammed the door before I could say anything else.

"I would be happy to drive you, then. Just say the word when you're sick of me."

I managed a slow smile of my own. "I'll do that."

Haytham's garage was double the size of my room back at the dorms. I found myself, out of habit, scanning it the way Achilles had taught me: "Look for places to climb. Look for exits." There were rafters above, but so many tools along the walls that I'd never find a proper handhold. Still, the place was organized and well-kept, just like the rest of his house.

"I haven't used any of these things in such a long time," Haytham said.

"You could fit a ship in here. Do you really need a garage this  _big_?"

He chuckled again. "Not really, no. I suppose I could throw a boat or two in here if I needed to, but I haven't sailed in years."

I raised a curious eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yes," he said, unlocking the door to let us both into the main house. "It was fun for a time, but I've lost my taste for it."

"Do you get seasick?"

He shot me a look over his shoulder. "Of course not. My father took me out so many times as a child that I simply lost interest."

I tried not to shrug and followed him into the house.

Until then, I had only seen the foyer, a front room, and the kitchen. His garage led into a bare hallway, but beyond that was a living room decorated in a series of whites and blacks. It was...tasteful, I guess, but still less than I expected from someone like him. For some reason I'd imagined him seated in a grand, high-ceilinged room like the ones I'd seen in shots of the palaces in the UK.

On the bright side, it wasn't as mindlessly white as the lobby in Abstergo.

"I suppose I could put on some tea or coffee," Haytham said absently. I looked then and saw that the living room was connected to the kitchen through another short hallway that I hadn't noticed before. I started to tail him - and quickly stopped myself when I realized I'd seem like a lost puppy.

"Do you have water?" I asked. He replied with a short laugh.

"I do. I think I'll take tea."

"Of course you will."

Haytham busied himself in the kitchen, and I set my bag down beside one of the sofas. None of them looked very comfortable. I bent down to touch one and it didn't  _feel_ very comfortable.

I really hoped he didn't expect me to sleep on any of them.

"You could turn on the television if you'd like," Haytham called from the kitchen. "I'm curious to see what kind of trash TV you like to watch."

I scowled to myself. "I don't watch much TV."

"Really? What sort of teenager are you?"

"I'll be twenty in a year."

"My, my. Surely that means you're nearly an adult."

Smartass.

I wandered to the TV anyway - surprisingly smaller than I thought it would be - and picked through the basket of remotes beside it. One for a bluray player, one for a VCR (I thought Achilles was the only person left in the country to own one of those things), one for cable, another for the actual TV... Where would I even begin? I gave up my search, stuffed my hands in my pockets, and wandered through the room.

There were no actual photographs on the walls or any of the tabletops. That was the first thing I noticed. Instead there were paintings - no prints - and a few meaningless knick knacks. Most of them were bottled ships, tiny intricate things I'd only seen in movies. I examined a few of them for a moment before I looked away.

Where was the picture of him and my mother? Thrown in a dresser where he could pull it out and look at it when he felt guilty enough? My jaw clenched. Mine was set on my bedside, where I saw it every morning when I woke up.

"Find anything of interest?"

I didn't turn right away, but I could hear Haytham returning from the kitchen. There was a clink as he set my glass on the coffee table before he came to stand beside me.

The words slipped out of my mouth before I could stop them.

"There aren't any pictures up of you and Mom."

I saw his expression fall from the corner of my eye. "Ah," he murmured. "I had a few here and there for quite a while, actually. Several years."

"You took them down after she left you?"

"I suppose you could say that," he said. The tension brought a vein in his neck to focus. "I was...upset when it happened. For a while I was so angry that I didn't want to see her, didn't want to think about her... Though she was the only person on my mind for years. If I'd known she was pregnant when we separated..."

I waited for him to continue, but Haytham had stopped talking and wandered off. There wasn't anger in his tone, not like before; it was only sadness now. Regret. It confused me. All these years, all this time, and I'd thought...

"I thought you just didn't want to see her again."

"I wish more than anything that she would have let me, but she refused it. And I gave up. I suppose that was a mistake. All these years and I never knew I had a son of my own," he said, wistful. "Your mother was stubborn, but I still..."

He stopped again. When I looked at him he was staring into his cup, watching the steam rise and swirl around his face.

And the emotion suddenly left him. "It's too late for all of that now," he said, his words sharp and final. "No use dwelling on it."

Not five minutes in and I'd already managed to hit a sore spot. I wanted badly to question him further about his relationship with my mother, but I could already see that it wouldn't go anywhere - not unless I wanted him to dump me back out on the street. I took a deep breath and went to take my water, only to find a cup of what looked like red tea.

"I found a new blend several days ago. I noticed that you seemed to enjoy what I gave you last time, so I thought you might like to try this as well," Haytham said when he noticed my pause. He brought his own cup to his lips.

I sniffed mine. "It smells...like fruit."

"I would assume so. It's a raspberry blend."

I ignored his sarcasm and took a cautious sip. It was...good, surprisingly. The tea flavor was still off-putting but the raspberry wasn't bad at all.

"It's good," I said, and Haytham smiled.

"Excellent. I was hoping you would like it."

I took another polite sip while he was still watching. It was hard to think of anything else to say; there was nothing in the room that I could bring up, like an interesting souvenir from a trip or a photograph of a relative I hadn't seen before. So instead we stood in awkward silence, our earlier conversation still hanging heavy between us.

"So," I started lamely, "how was...um, work this week?"

Haytham gave me a strange look before he replied - one that he tried to hide before I could see it. "It was all right. Same as always," he said after a moment's hesitation.

Did he know something? A tiny spark of fear began to build up in my chest - and I crushed it before it could grow.

Instead I took a lighter approach. "What do you do, exactly?" I asked, trying to look casually over the few things he had displayed in the room while also watching for his reaction.

Haytham's face was smooth and expressionless as he spoke. "I work for a company called Abstergo. I suppose you've heard of them?"

It took me a second to reply. I hadn't expected him to just... _come out with it_ , after all.

"I, um...yeah, of course," I said, wishing I could kick myself right then and there. If Achilles had heard me stumble around like that... And around the Grand Master, no less.

"There are several divisions. I suspect you're most familiar with the entertainment one - they make video games and the like. They probably run a lot of the websites you visit. I work with one of the others as a supervisor."

A supervisor indeed.

"Sounds like you're pretty important."

"You could say that."

I reached out to touch one of bottled ships, one that resembled what I thought looked like a pirate ship. The glass was smooth and cool beneath my fingertips.

"What about you, Connor?" he asked suddenly. "Do you have a part-time job, or are you only going to school for now?"

"Just school. I don't think I'd have much time for a job right now."

"Ah, but you have no after-school activities, do you?"

"No. But class work keeps me busy."

"I would imagine."

Haytham began to sit then, his cup still clasped in his hands. The tension hadn't left his neck or his arms, but his face was remarkably calm.

"Your guardian, now..."

I felt my own hands clench. Here it was.

"I would like to meet him - or her - sometime soon, if that would be at all possible."

"Why?" I asked, voice steady. I was getting better at this.

Haytham gave me a careful look. "Because I'd like to know what sort of person raised my son. Now, don't give me that face - you seem to have turned out just fine. I'm sure it was a remarkable person. But still, you must understand-"

"He's very busy. He doesn't live very close."

"You manage the trip to see him every few weekends."

"That's because I'm his-"

"Look." Haytham stopped me by holding up his free hand. "There is no need to be so defensive. What's wrong with me meeting the man who took care of you all these years? Perhaps I would simply like to thank him for what he's done. I mean him no harm, Connor."

There was something ominous about his words. Something dark, now that I knew exactly who he was and what sorts of things he had done to the Assassins.

"I guess that wouldn't hurt," I found myself saying. I had to improvise something; he'd know if I was scrambling. "You could meet him sometime."

"Good! Very good. Perhaps we could arrange something before you go."

"We could."

Wonderful. Now I was only putting off the inevitable. I sat on the arm of a nearby sofa and imagined the reaming Achilles would give me when he found out how badly this had all gone-

But I wasn't here for Achilles, was I? I looked across the room, to my father, who was sitting placidly in a chair while he drank his tea. He seemed every bit the cunning bastard Achilles had made him out to be, but still. I was here to get to know this cunning bastard, and not entirely for the brotherhood's benefit.

"I actually got that Dickens paper back," I said.

"Really? How did it go?"

"High B."

"I take it that was better than you expected."

"Much."

"Ah, Connor, Connor," he said, shaking his head. "You should have let me help. I could have given you a solid A. I know that book front and back."

"Yeah, right."

"I've read almost all of Dickens' works. He was an excellent writer for his time."

"And I guess you've memorized all of Shakespeare too?"

"Only the important parts."

It took me a moment to realize I was smiling along with him. I tried to wipe the expression from my face and found it strangely difficult.

"What's your next assignment?" he asked.

"We're staring theater, actually. A play by Oscar...Wilde? I forgot what it's called."

"I expect it's  _The Importance of Being Earnest_. It's a popular one in college classes."

"Yeah, that's it."

"I'm not much of a theater buff, so I'm afraid you're on your own for this one," he said with a sigh. "A play might be easier for you, though. It's all dialogue."

"If it's anything like Dickens-"

"Oh, hush." He set his empty cup aside and motion to the shelf of bottled ships. "I saw you staring at those earlier. Do you have an interest in the sea?"

"One of our neighbors does. Or did. He talks about one he used to sail all the time. The  _Aquila_ , I think."

"The  _Aquila..._ "

"Yeah."

"I see," he said thoughtfully. Haytham paused for a moment, then added, "I mentioned that my father used to take me sailing. He sent me those, actually."

My grandfather. Curiosity got the better of me.

"Is he...still around?"

"Oh, yes. I haven't spoken to him in ages, though," Haytham said, much to my disappointment.

"Did something happen?"

"A difference of opinion. He-"

He was interrupted by a shrill beep. Haytham pulled his phone from his front pocket and checked the screen.

"Damn you, Church," he muttered under his breath. "Excuse me for a moment. I have to take this."

I nodded as he left the room. Things felt...lighter now after the near-confrontation earlier. I still had so much I wanted to ask him about Ista, so much I wanted to know about who she was then and what their relationship was like before I was born... But it seemed that would have to wait. For now, at least.

Still. Maybe this visit wouldn't be nearly as bad as I thought it would.


	12. Threats

"You need to come back," Church said, completely breathless, as soon as I picked up. “You need to come back  _right now._ ”

I tried not to sign into the phone. Now, of all times…

"Benjamin, I happen to be in the middle of something-"

"I mean it, sir.  _Right now_."

"Why don’t you start by  _telling_ me what is so urgent?"

"It’s not something I feel comfortable discussing over the phone."

This time I did sigh, though it sounded more like a growl. I could imagine Church flinching on the other line.

"You’re going to have to make an exception. I have a guest over and I can’t just up and leave him."

"Who-"

"Tell me, Church."

I heard a shuffle from behind him, some shouting. Church yelled something in reply, though his voice was muffled. He must have slapped his hand over the phone. I made my way out of the kitchen and into the foyer, where I hoped Connor couldn’t hear me.

"Church!" I hissed loud enough for the other man to hear.

"Yes, I’m still here. Yes. Well, ah…" He fumbled for a moment, his tone strained and frustrated. “The Assassin, sir, Zenger…"

"I remember his name."

"He’s…he’s escaped the facility."

 

I very nearly dropped the phone. It slipped from my fingers, but I managed to grab it before it hit the floor.

"Please tell me I misheard that."

Another voice came on then, one I found far more familiar and comforting, given the situation. “It’s Zenger, sir. He’s been re-captured by the Assassins," Charles told me.

"How in the world did they…" I paused for a moment, looked over my shoulder. No sign of Connor. “How in the world did they  _manage_ that? He was under the best security, he was-"

"There was someone on the inside. They helped him. Several of the security guards are dead."

I hissed a curse into the phone. All of the chaos in the background made sense now.

Was Zenger really important enough that the Assassins needed to reclaim him? They seemed content enough to let plenty of their others waste away in the Animus units without even a peep of protest. What made Zenger so different?

"What’s going on now?" I asked when Charles said nothing more.

"We’ve sent groups out to search for him and his accomplice."

"Who helped him?"

"There were several others besides our…former employee. He let them in, apparently."

"His name was…?"

"Wilkinson. Clipper Wilkinson, the-"

"One of our best snipers. Damn." I ran a hand through my hair and tried not to tousle it. “But you’re saying that a  _few_ men managed to break through an  _entire building’s_ security systems and escape?"

There was an uncomfortable pause on the other end. “Well…not just two, sir-"

"How  _bloody many did you let into the building?!_ ”

"We’re not sure right now, but we’re working on it," Charles said, more angry than distressed now. “Is the matter  _important_ enough now that you can dismiss your guest and come back to the facility?"

"For the moment, no. But I trust that this is something you can handle yourself until I can make it back?"

"Yes, sir. Though I’m sure the men would be more assured by your presence."

"I’ll be there tomorrow, at the earliest. Call me if there are any new developments before then," I said, and hung up the phone before he could respond. Surely they could keep things under control until I had a chance to return; they’d done it countless times before in the past, back when I was still with Ziio and tending to matters in the UK.

This was certainly an important development, but…

I returned to the living room, where Connor was furiously typing something into his own phone. He glanced up at me once before he finished his message and shoved the device back in his pocket.

"Everything all right?" I asked him, hoping that I sounded far more calm than I actually felt.

"Yes. Was that work?"

I paused. How much had he managed to hear?

"It was," I answered as smoothly as I could manage. “One of my co-workers had a question."

"You sounded angry."

"Yes, well. You would be too if you had to work with such incompetence."

My son cracked a small smile at that. “So I take it you must be the  _smartest_  one in the building."

"Of course. The entire operation would fall apart without me."

"Mhmm."

I took my tea from the table where I’d left it. The drink was lukewarm now and semi-undrinkable. Still, I put it to my lips and took a long sip. I felt drained after the phone conversation, and try as I might, I couldn’t stop thinking about the Assassins’ infiltration into the building. Did Connor already know about their escape? Is that what he was typing so feverishly about?

"I have a question," he suddenly said, breaking my train of thought. “About my grandfather."

The subject change was almost jarring. That, and I hadn’t spoken about my father to anyone in  _years_. Even Jenny knew not to mention him in her biannual letters.

Still, Connor hadn’t spoken to him before - hadn’t known he’d even existed until maybe fifteen minutes ago - and I suppose he had some right to know about the side of his family he’d never met.

"What do you want to know?"

"You said he sails?"

"Sometimes. It was one of his passions when he was younger, before my sister and I were born."

"He’s still in the UK."

"Yes. He’s been to Boston a few times, but he prefers to stay back in his homeland."

"What does he do? Besides that, I mean."

"Hmm." I took another short drink to buy myself time. Now would not be a good chance to tell him that his grandfather was - is, actually - an Assassin, and a full member of the British Brotherhood. I was surprised the boy hadn’t met the man on one of his rare stops in the States, given that he’d supposedly fraternized with Achilles on more than one occasion.

"He is rather wealthy," was all I managed to think of.

Connor gave a frown so small that I almost didn’t catch it before his expression went smooth once more. “Like you," he said.

"I suppose."

I stood then, still cradling my cup in one hand. The tea was gone now, but I wasn’t sure I had the stomach for more.

"Why don’t you take one of his bottled ships?" I proposed. I had more than twenty of them, after all; my father continued to send them even after I’d left the family home, and I barely had enough room.

Connor started. “Really? But-"

"I saw you admiring them earlier. Go ahead, pick whichever you want."

Connor, despite his protests, wandered over to the display shelf. His eyes were alight with an emotion similar to the one I’d seen when I handed him that photograph of myself and his mother. He stared at the bottles for a while, but I think we both knew which he was most interested in.

"Is this one all right?" he asked, taking the tiny pirate ship in his hands. His touch was surprisingly delicate for one with such rough, callused fingers.

"Perfectly fine. Put it here on the table until you leave; that way it won’t let lost or broken."

"Thank you."

"You’re very welcome."

I shifted restlessly for some time after that. Connor switched on the TV (despite his earlier protests about not watching much of it, he seemed very engrossed in whatever was on the Animal Planet) and I poured myself another shallow cupful of tea. The smell of raspberries seemed spoiled now, too sweet to be appetizing. I poured the rest of the kettle out and made something milder, more bitter. Something that matched my mood a bit better.

Connor was distracted when I returned to the living room. His eyes were on the TV, but his free hand was hovering over the phone. Its screen lit and his snapped it up.

"Is something wrong?" I asked him, settling down on the opposite end of the couch.

"No. It’s nothing."

There it was again: that wall he’d thrown up as soon as I met him several weeks ago. It was back now. Something was amiss. I could only guess that it had to do with whatever was going on at Abstergo at that very moment.

"…Is it something I can help with?"

Connor looked up then, his expression one of confusion. “Help me? Um-"

He was cut off by a savage knocking at the door. Connor’s mouth snapped shut and he withdrew once more.

I sighed, pushed myself off the seat, and made my way to the front door. It was late by now; the sun had long set and the night was darkening. If it was Church or Charles, I swore…

I did see a familiar face when I opened the door. It was not, however, the one I expected.

“ _Master_  Kenway," Zenger said, shrugging the white hood of his coat from his head. “I wasn’t sure I’d find you."

"Good evening, Mr. Zenger. Where are your friends? Waiting in ambush?"

"Perhaps you should come see."

"I’d prefer not."

Another face materialized behind Zenger’s, one that I did not recognize. The man was holding an impressive-looking butcher’s knife. He saw me watching it and held it up for me to see.

"A gift from the Assassins for you," the man said, his French accent thick. “For what you’ve done the past few years."

"Gentlemen, perhaps this is not the time-"

"This is the perfect time. You’re alone here. Maybe it would have been in your best interest to return to your friends."

My eyes narrowed. My jaw set. They’d known how vulnerable I might be at home - and they’d obviously hacked into Abstergo records to obtain the address.

But if it was a fight these overconfident Assassins wanted, it was a fight they would get. I was not nearly as weak as they obviously thought me to be. I engaged the hidden blade I still kept on my wrist and used my other hand to grab for my phone. If I was lucky, there were still Abstergo agents in the area and I could summon them quickly enough to help.

"Haytham?"

I froze. I’d nearly forgotten about Connor. Why couldn’t the boy stay put? I turned, and Zenger and his companion stepped away from the building.

My son had obviously heard some of what was exchanged. His hands were clenched into tight fists at his side, and I could see the muscle standing out in his neck. There was concern there, perhaps some anger, but no fear or trepidation. Only confidence.

I couldn’t help but feel a surge of fatherly pride.

"What is it?" he asked. He hadn’t seen who was at the door, or else he would-

Connor suddenly stopped. His hands unclenched and his shoulders fell.

Ah. He had seen them.

"Just a few overzealous solicitors," I said, hand on the door. “I’ll take care of them."

I could see Zenger’s mouth moving from the corner of my eye. He raised an eyebrow and mouthed Connor’s name, and I had to suppress the urge to turn around and punch him in the jaw.

Connor glanced back and forth between the Assassins and myself. He was at a complete loss and hadn’t figured out how to recover himself.

I almost ruined it all then. “Friends of yours?" I nearly asked. The words were on my tongue, nearly slipped past, when Zenger stepped away from the door, bringing his companion with him.

"Apologies," he muttered.

"It would be best if you didn’t return here. I don’t buy things from door-to-door sellers. Untrustworthy bunch, I find."

They disappeared without another word. I shut the door, locked it, and bolted it.

We were not safe, I knew. Far from it. Zenger and the other Assassins were out there now, and thanks to Church’s botched efforts at security, they had new information on their side.

I turned away from the door with a tired sigh. At least I could alert the others. Perhaps it would be best if I returned to Abstergo tomorrow morning, after Connor left.

Connor.

My son was still standing beside me, his face completely unreadable now. His earlier surprise was gone.

"Very interesting solicitors," I said, hoping to break this silence with some light humor. Connor didn’t respond right away.

"Connor?"

His eyes jumped to meet mine. “Yeah. Yes," he said, barely hesitating. “You’re sure you’re all right?"

"Perfectly fine," I said, lifting my arm to play with the locks. I realized then that the hidden blade was still engaged, still poking from the sleeve of my shirt. I flicked my wrist and it disappeared with a nearly silent  _snick_  of metal on metal.

If Connor had seen, however, he said nothing.

"How do you feel about dinner? Perhaps I could work something up," I said, though I had no appetite for food. I  _was_  in the mood for a distraction, or a way to keep Connor busy while I called Charles.

"Sounds fine to me," he said. My son turned then, paused for a moment, and flicked his wrist when he thought I’d returned my attention to the door.

I heard that familiar  _snick._

So he had one of the Assassin blades as well.


	13. Warnings

"It isn't wise for you to come home."

The words sent a strange chill up my spine. My mouth opened, floundered for a moment before I caught myself.

I'd heard those words before, or some variation of them. Back when I was young, still not old enough to care for myself if I had to, after I'd seen mine and my mother's house burn to the ground...

I bit my lip. This was nothing like that day. Achilles merely sounded concerned - not afraid - on the other line. I pressed my phone back to my ear and steadied myself.

"What's wrong? Did Abstergo get there?"

"No, not yet. But that's why I'm telling you not to come back. They still don't know that you're an Assassin. The rest of us, though..."

Achilles trailed off, and for a moment I could see him pinching the bridge of his nose as he considered his words.

"They came to Haytham's house while I was there. Did you know that?" I asked before he could continue. I already knew what he was going to say: that the rest of them were in some sort of trouble - or they would be - since Jacob and Stephane made such a reckless decision. Making the escape from Abstergo was one thing, but going to Haytham's house right after?

The remainder of that night was tense and uncomfortable. My father was on edge, keeping constant watch from the windows while he made frantic calls from his phone. "The sorry lot working beneath me has no idea what it's doing," he told me once when I asked him if everything was all right. His tone was just as smooth as before, but I could see a steely light in his eyes. He was angry, but he most definitely wasn't afraid.

That was the first time that I caught a glimpse of what my father really was: a Grandmaster, a true leader of the Templar Order, and a man who once had a hand in tearing down the Assassin Brotherhood.

He dropped me back off at the dorms early the next morning morning. I'd given another paper as an excuse, but I think he was too distracted to pay me much attention. Abstergo needed him, and he didn't have the time or energy to play his role as 'father' anymore.

Was this what he had done to my mother, too? Was it that easy for him to set aside a woman he claimed to have loved so fiercely that he still thought about her?

Achilles didn't call me until later that day, but my mind was still spinning. I had a hard time pushing my thoughts aside long enough to do any of my class work.

"I know," Achilles said after a moment, bringing me back to the present and the task at hand. "They left for the headquarters in New York, but... It might be too late. The Order has some of Jacob's memories and now they have Haytham's attention as well."

"What were they thinking?"

"Nothing, apparently. Jacob says that they knew he was alone that time of the night, and Stephane... You know how he is. It doesn't take much to rile him up."

Achilles's voice was calm, but I could hear the anger there, bubbling beneath the surface. I could only imagine what he'd said to Jacob and Stephane, and I was glad that for once I wasn't at the receiving end of it.

"What do we do now?" I asked, quiet and thoughtful.

"You can't come back here, first of all. The Order still doesn't know that you're one of us-"

"How do we know that?"

"Because Clipper has been keeping an eye on their records. They saw you in some of Jacob's memories, but there was nothing incriminating. Thank God I've been training you away from the others," Achilles said. The relief in his tone was nearly palpable. "The Order will strike again very soon, now that Jacob's out of their hands and they know they had several Assassins among their trusted ranks. I don't want you caught up in this-"

"But I'm one of you now! I'm a full member of the Brotherhood! I have every right to be there."

"Not right now. Not yet. We'll need your strength when things go downhill."

When. It wasn't  _if_  anymore. I swallowed back my frustration, but it seeped into my voice anyway, thick and heavy.

"I want to be there. I  _need_  to be there, Achilles. The Brotherhood isn't strong enough to fight the Order on its own. I-"

"You will do no such thing. I will tell the others to stay away from you and the school. You will be dormant for now, Connor. Don't do anything reckless. Stay out of trouble. We will call you when we need you."

"You can't just force me to pretend nothing's wrong. I can't stand aside while-"

"You will do what I say."

I all but growled my anger and impatience over the phone. "You need me, Achilles! They don't know who I am. I can gather information, I can fight. I won't let the Brotherhood die again."

"Damn it, boy, have you listened to a word I've said?! You have to distance yourself! You're not ready for something this big!"

"You said I was! I'm an Assassin!"

"Connor, calm down."

I realized then that I was yelling, that I was breathing so hard he could hear me through the phone. My jaw was set, teeth gritted, hands clenched so tightly around the phone that it was threatening to break in half. I tried to relax my grip, to ease my breaths, but I could still feel the anger flowing through me like a poison.

"You must listen to me, Connor," Achilles said, slower now, though just as forceful as before. "We don't know  _what_  Abstergo is going to do yet, or  _when_  they are going to do it. I will not pull you into this fight until the time is right. Your anonymity is our greatest asset right now - it means the Order won't see you coming when you're ready to strike. It may be a deciding factor in this war."

"I know that. But if something happens to you..."

I forced myself to stop. I would not let my mind wander down that path. Not again, not after what happened to Ista...

"I am one person, Connor. You must fight for the sake of the Brotherhood. If we are taken down, then the Order will assume full control. No one will be there to stop them. You may be our best bet in the end. We will be depending on you."

Depending on me. Everything on my shoulders.

"You have trained long and hard for this. I believe in you, Connor."

"I'll... Yes. Just tell me what to do," I said. "But I don't like the thought of you being alone there."

He chuckled. "I won't be alone. I'm old, but I'm not stupid."

"The break is starting soon too. The dorms will be closed so I won't be able to stay here."

"Is there someone who can take you in? None of the other Assassins, but a friend from the reservation?"

I ran over a very short list of names. My grandmother was out of the question; she was with family of her own, people I didn't quite trust or feel comfortable around. I could have asked Kanen'tó:kon if he wasn't studying out of state.

One last name came to mind. Someone closer, though I wasn't sure if they would say yes. And someone who Achilles surely wouldn't approve of.

"I'll ask around," I said.

"Good. Keep in touch, but be careful."

"I will."

"And  _don't_ go back to Abstergo. Stay close to the campus."

"I won't."

"Be safe, Connor."

"And you as well."

I hung up and scrolled through the numbers on my phone. I highlighted Haytham Kenway, but my finger hovered over the Call button.

Was this really wise after what'd happened? After Jacob and Stephane nearly gave me away? I almost shut my phone off again, but...

Maybe he'd be too distracted by his work to catch on. Maybe I could still gather information while abiding to Achilles's rules: I would still be close to campus, and I most definitely wouldn't be anywhere near Abstergo. I could help the Brotherhood without the Order knowing who I was. All Haytham had to know was that I needed a place to stay during the break.

I hit Call and put the phone back to my ear before I could change my mind.


	14. In the Right

Connor had managed to surprise me more than once since he (rather suddenly) made his way into my life. And I have to admit, I am not a man easily surprised.

"I need a place to stay for a while," he told me over the phone. "I was hoping-"

I found myself answering before the boy could finish his sentence. "Of course," I said. "Of course. Is this over the break?"

"Yeah."

"...If I may ask, were you kicked out of you guardian's house?"

His voice was taut. "No. He's going to be away for a while, so I thought-"

"It's fine. Stop by this weekend and I can give you a spare key. You're welcome any time, son."

Something in my tone must have made him nervous. "Yeah, okay," he said. Stammered, almost. "I'll come after classes on Friday."

"Very well."

So Achilles was on the move. Unsurprising. I doubt I would have stayed in the same place for long if an entire band of Templars had put me in their sights. His men made a foolish decision stopping by my home.

At least Achilles made the decision to put Connor out of danger. My home would be safest for him - especially now that I had several of my men patrolling the area. As exciting as the unexpected Assassin visit was, I didn't think I could tolerate any more.

I slipped the phone back into my pocket and leaned forward on my desk. The halls outside were buzzing with people: with scientists, their assistants, and security guards running back and forth. The entire Abstergo building had been thrown into a sort of semi-organized chaos since the escape of the Assassins, and for the moment, I wanted no part of it. I'd already lectured both Church and his lackeys half a dozen times and I'd only been back for a day.

A knock interrupted my moment of self pity. I looked up, expecting Charles, but instead I thought I could make out Johnson and another, shorter form outside my office door's frosted glass.

"Come in," I said, straightening myself out. Johnson entered, followed by Hickey and the unmistakable stench of stale liquor. It was barely past noon and the man was no doubt piss drunk, though he barely showed it; Hickey moved with a strange, lurching grace when he was inebriated, and his mind was - somehow - still sharp as a tack.

"'Afternoon, 'Aytham," Hickey said, giving me a mock salute as he slouched in one of the chairs across from mine. He threw one leg over the arm and rested his cheek against his hand.

Johnson sat with a quiet frown on his face. "Thomas-"

I waved a hand. "It's all right. Did you need something?"

"Is now a bad time?" Johnson asked, eyebrow slowly raised. "You said you wanted Thomas to present his findings today at noon."

My gaze dropped to the calendar on my desk. There it was in small, red handwriting:  _Hickey, 1:30PM_. Of course I'd managed to forget, even though I'd made the note just a few hours before. I reached up to pinch the bridge of my nose.

"No, of course not. Please, go right ahead."

Johnson gave me a curious look, but he gestured to Hickey, who was picking at the dirt beneath his nails. The man leered.

"Tha' boy you've been 'aving me stalk goes by Connor. Lives with tha' Achilles, yeah?"

"So it would seem."

"Anyway, 'e doesn't do much besides go to 'is classes and the like. But I recognize him. 'E was at Abstergo a few months ago."

My blood turned to ice. I stared at Hickey, waited for him to continue, but the man said nothing. All he gave me was that infuriating smile.

"Well?" I prompted. "What was he doing here? Was Achilles with him?"

"Now, I think you 'n William here are hidin' something from me," Hickey said. He leaned further in his chair, so far that I could hear it creak beneath the strain. My hands balled into fists, but Johnson spoke before I could.

"What do you mean?" he asked, a picture of calm.

"Why're you interested in some kid? Is it because 'e lives with that Achilles guy?"

"That's part of it."

Hickey crossed his arms over his chest. "That ain't all. Ol' bossman 'ere wouldn't 'ave cared a lick before."

"Please continue with the information, Hickey. That's what you're paid for," I said through gritted teeth. Sometimes the man tested my patience more thoroughly than any of my other employees.

"Yeah, fine," Hickey said with a shrug. "I ain't done yet though. I'm gonna find out-"

Johnson cleared his throat. "Go on."

"Anyway, tha' kid was in the lobby of Abstergo a few weeks back. I saw 'im there. Gave ol' Charles the stink eye."

"Charles?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"Did he seem to recognize him?"

"'ho, Charles or the kid? Charles didn't, but the kid seemed to know 'ho he was."

"Did they speak?"

"No."

"Did Charles say anything about it after?"

"No."

"Hm," I hummed thoughtfully. There was some sort of connection there, but I didn't understand it. Not yet.

"I follow that kid around but he ain't doin' anything special. I see 'im climbing up the side of Achilles' mansion sometimes but that's it. Oh, and he 'as a hidden blade, like one of those Assassin things."

I nodded. That only confirmed my suspicions from the other night. The cold in my body was deepening, spreading, turning to anxiety and fear.

Hickey raised his arms in a shrug. "That's all I really 'ave. Oh, and he's your  _son_ , but I think ya already knew that," he added with that leering grin.

I returned it with a glare of my own. "That's information to be kept to yourself. Speak one word of it to someone besides William or myself and I will personally make sure that you're driven six feet into the ground. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," Hickey said, though he was unmoved. The man was examining his dirty fingernails again with more interest than he had ever shown me.

"You can go," Johnson said, giving Hickey a nod of his head. The younger man pulled himself from the chair and left without looking back at either of us.

"Can we trust him to keep that to himself?" I asked as soon as the door was closed again.

"For now, I think so. No one's asking about the boy. I think even Church has forgotten about him in all of the chaos," Johnson said. He ran a tired hand down his face. "I have a feeling you and I might be the only ones who remember him from the Assassin's memories."

"I hope so."

I settled back in my chair, and for a moment - the briefest moment - silence seemed to dominate the room. I could barely hear the pounding feet just outside the office door.

"The boy is coming to live with me for a while," I said, albeit hesitantly. "I believe that means Achilles is on the move."

"I wouldn't be surprised. It's probably smart of him, after everything that happened."

"Indeed. And this means I can keep Connor safe - far away from any Assassin troubles or ideals."

Johnson regarded me carefully. "Are you going to try to convert him?"

"I doubt it's possible at this point, but I would at least like to turn him away from the Assassins. Perhaps I can show him the chaos they've caused."

"It's worth a try."

"If that fails...perhaps we could keep Achilles on the run. Keep them separated. Or at least keep him away from his Assassin...brothers," I said. The word felt like poison on my tongue.

"Be careful," Johnson said, his voice just barely over a murmur. "If Church or Charles  _do_  recognize him-"

"It will be fine. I'm keeping him to myself for now. Though I'm curious to know what Charles apparently did to offend him."

"Maybe it's just the fact that he's a Templar?" Johnson offered, a wry grin pulling at his lips.

"I hope that's the case," I said. "Then it might be easier to convince him we're in the right. Perhaps I might invite Charles over sometime soon. They could meet properly, talk. Connor might see that Charles isn't as bad as he supposedly seems."

"Don't scare him off. This may be your only chance to..." Johnson paused for a moment, trailed off, before he reluctantly continued: "This may be your only chance to get close enough to convince him that he should come here."

"As a Templar? I already told you, William, I-"

"No. To enter the Animus."

That awful coldness returned. My gaze dropped to my hands, clenched on the top of my desk. I could still feel the machine probing my own memories, could still hear the hushed tones of the scientists as they dissected them like a frog...

My voice was unbearably quiet when I finally spoke. "I...don't know if I could do that to him."

"His mother's family was close to where we think the area is. If we scan his memories, we might-"

I held up a hand. "Not right now, William. I don't want to think about that right now."

"It  _may_  be necessary. For Abstergo, for the Templar Order-"

"I'll discuss this with you later," I said, with what I hoped was enough finality that Johnson would take the hint.

He did. He sighed though, made a fuss of getting up from his chair. He looked back at me before he left and shook his head.

"I understand that you care for your son, Haytham. But we may need him in the future. You have to be prepared for that - especially if Birch finds out."

"I know," I said. Though I didn't.


	15. Some Time to Bond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack! Sorry for the long delay again! My semester started a week ago and I've been back at work since a little before then. My schedule is stretched a bit thin with part-time work and a full-time class schedule, but I'm trying to work in time to continue writing between all that. :) Thank you for your patience, as always!

I found myself cleaning like a man possessed in the days before Connor's arrival. Not that my home was horribly messy by any means; something about the actions of dusting and storing things away seemed calming, and for whatever reason, my son's request to stay stressed me out more than I ever imagined it would.

I cleared out the guest room for him, tried to make it more comfortable for an extended stay. After, I found myself back in the kitchen, going over my things and trying to decide what I should make. What did Connor like? What were some of his favorite drinks, desserts? Would he even be staying for dinner? Did he have friends he preferred to eat with?

I realized then that, all things considered, I knew so little about my son.

Connor arrived early that Friday evening, after his classes were over. His duffle bag was slung casually over one shoulder and his hands were shoved in his pockets.

"Thank you for having me," he said as he stepped through the front door. "And sorry it was such short notice."

"Not a problem at all."

He stopped by the model ship display shelf again, staring at them curiously. There was a bare spot, a dustless oval where the pirate ship used to be before I'd given it to him.

"Did you take the bus? I could have picked you up," I said after a silence.

"I didn't want to trouble you. Didn't you just finish work?"

"Yes, but still. I can make time for my son."

His face screwed up for a moment, stuck somewhere between a curious frown and a half grin, and he turned away.

"Let me show you to your room," I offered.

He looked at me again, this time surprised. "You didn't have to do that. I could have slept on a couch again, or-"

"Nonsense. I have plenty of room here."

The boy followed me up to the second floor, and I stopped beside the former guestroom. I was a bit proud of the work I'd done, I had to admit – the room was absolutely spotless, the furniture tasteful but polished, the bedspread without a single crease. Connor seemed momentarily impressed himself, before his face smoothed back to its usual semi-emotionless state.

"Thank you. Again."

"I'll leave you to it. Come downstairs whenever you're hungry," I said, but he'd already seated himself on the edge of the mattress and was pulling belongings from his duffle one by one. The last thing I saw him remove before I left was the photograph of Ziio and myself, which he set on the bedside table.

Something hitched gently in my chest as I made my way down the hall and back to the kitchen. I could still hear Connor upstairs, his footfalls through the ceiling; and it was strange, after so many years of living alone. It would take some getting used to, given that the last time I'd had a roommate was almost twenty years ago.

Connor's footsteps were much heavier than Ziio's, but the sound reminded me of quiet evenings after work, when I would come home to find her flitting about the house – when she wasn't at the reservation, of course. But as the years went by, she started spending more and more time here with me.

Those weekends were some of my absolute favorites, my most treasured.

What would it be like to have my son staying here? I was so used to living in solitude, to having my free time to myself, but I found myself more anxious – a good anxious – about sharing my home with Connor, if even for a short time.

For now, though, I had to decide what we would eat. I still had no idea what my son enjoyed, aside from the fruit tea I tried to keep stocked on the days I knew he would visit.

Connor came down maybe half an hour later, when I was still trying to work up an idea for a meal. I could cook, of course – I'd supported myself for some time now – but I wanted to make something he would like. Something that wouldn't scare him out of my house on his first day.

My son took one look at me, another at the empty kitchen, and said, "How about pizza?"

\---

"-so he gave me another book to read, even though we just finished the last one and wrote a whole paper on it."

I laughed. Connor gave me an amused smile as he picked a layer of cheese from his fourth slice of pizza. My, that boy could eat. I knew the stereotype about college students, but this was the first time I'd seen it in action.

"You're supposed to read a play this time, hm? I remember you mentioning the Wilde one before."

"Yes. I'm not a big fan of them, though," he said, somewhat sullen. "…What about you?"

"It depends on the content of the play, I suppose. I'm more for opera, myself. My father used to take me to an opera house in London when I was young."

Connor raised his eyebrows. "That's…an interesting way to bond."

"And here I thought you were going to make another quip about how very posh and British it sounded."

"I wanted to."

I chuckled again, and Connor joined me.

The conversation lulled for a moment while we chewed our respective slices. Connor was opening up to me more now than he had before; our conversation thus far had been pleasant and light. I found that I was enjoying myself more than I ever expected after meeting him.

"So…my grandfather…"

The cheese in my mouth turned to ash. I swallowed thickly and looked across the table at him. Connor's gaze was completely innocent, though; he seemed genuinely curious about his grandfather, about a family member he hadn't known existed until a few days ago. Perhaps even Achilles didn't know about the Assassin Edward Kenway…

Or he did, and Connor was an excellent actor. Much in the same way I'd been taught to be.

"Alive and well in the United Kingdom," I said, hoping he hadn't noticed my pause – however short it had been.

"You said you haven't spoken to him in some time."

"Yes. Unfortunately, I suppose. We had an…argument, and we never reconnected after."

"An argument…"

"It happens."

An argument, indeed. It was more of an all-out screaming match, one that lasted for hours before we both gave up and went our separate ways. At the time, I had hoped that I would never have to speak to the man again, never have to hear his voice, or see his face, or think about him ever again – and yet I found myself missing him, all these years later. I missed the man I'd idolized for so long. I didn't like thinking of him as an enemy…even though that's exactly what he was.

"Would it be possible for me to speak to him sometime?" Connor asked with surprising confidence. "I could explain everything to him, you wouldn't have to talk to him at all-"

I held up a hand to silence him. Connor floundered for a moment and went quiet.

"That…would be fine with me," I said, albeit reluctantly. Still, if Connor was here, he was close… I could monitor his conversations with my father.

Connor's expression lit. "Really?"

"Of course. He would be pleased to hear he has a grandson, I think. Considering your aunt has opted to remain single and childless."

"Do you think so?"

"I don't have his number anymore, but let me give my sister a call. I can do it later this weekend."

"Thank you. I…" Connor trailed off for a moment, thoughtful, and said, "It's…interesting. My maternal grandmother is still alive, but she's...always busy. I never thought I might have a grandfather or even an aunt."

I laughed lightly as I gathered up my napkins and the remains of our dinner. "I don't speak with my family much, but they're there."

"…And your mother?"

"She passed a few years ago."

"Oh."

We let that lie between us for a moment. Here we were, united in our motherless states. Though I hadn't seen mine the years before her death, and I hadn't attended her funeral either; I was a Templar by then, and they knew. And it might have come to blows between my father and myself if I showed up.

"What was her name?" Connor asked, quiet.

"Tessa. Your aunt's name is Jenny. She's my half-sister, actually. How we fought when we were children…"

"Like regular siblings, or…?"

"Typical siblings. She was much older and liked to tease. Though I must admit, I was not very civil myself."

"I never had a brother or sister, so I can't say I know what it's like."

I felt a twinge of satisfaction at that.

"Did Ziio…date?" I couldn't help but ask.

Connor snorted. "No. I suppose you're happy to hear that?"

"I must say I am."

"I think she missed you. Sometimes."

This time it was very difficult to keep the surprise from my tone. "Really, now? How do you know this?"

"Just the way she spoke sometimes. Like she was nostalgic. And maybe a little lonely."

How many times over the years had I felt the same? And I'd never once reached out, never once thought to pick up the phone and give her a call (actually I had, just a few times, in an extremely rare and semi-drunken fit). But I'd respected her wishes, kept my distance as I'd promised… Contacting her may have only made things worse.

But still…

"…I'm glad you sought me out, at least," I said when Connor didn't continue.

"Me too. At first I didn't think things would work out, but…"

"We've come along rather nicely, haven't we?"

"I think so."

I held up the mug I'd been drinking coffee from. "To the next week. Hopefully we can stay on good terms."

Connor smirked and held up his own glass of soda. "To unexpected father and son bonding."


	16. Preparations

I caught the man following me before I made it halfway to the coffee shop. It was a Templar, the shorter and younger one I'd seen alongside Charles Lee that afternoon Achilles sent me into the Abstergo building.

I had to give the Templar some credit, I guess: he'd followed me successfully for a long time, and I probably wouldn't have noticed him if I hadn't realized the stench of stale cigarettes was shadowing me for longer than it should have. I turned and saw the Templar lounging against a brick wall, one hand in his pocket and the other dangling at his side. He caught me looking in his direction and gave a sly half-grin.

I turned away and entered the coffee shop with an angry grunt. Was Haytham having me followed already? I'd only been at his house for a day and I'd done absolutely nothing to arouse his suspicions.

The coffee shop – a different one than where I'd first met my father – was bustling that rainy afternoon. I scanned the crowd and found my target waiting patiently at a table in the back.

"Good to see you again, Connor," Dobby said with a grin. She pushed some of her notebooks out of the way when I sat down with my cup of coffee.

"It's good to see you too." I nodded at the papers and books. "What are all these for?"

"I thought it might be a good idea if I posed as one of your instructors. I'm a bit too old to be a classmate or a friend," she said, giving me a wink. "And it looks like it was a good idea. You've got a little shadow, I see."

I couldn't smell the cigarettes anymore, but a quick glance from the corner of my eye told me that the Templar was lingering at the counter. It looked like he was flirting – or trying to flirt – with the young barista, but he wasn't fooling me.

"I noticed him when I was out on the street."

"How long has he been following you?"

"Probably since I left Haytham's."

"Do you think he knows anything?"

"I doubt it."

"Hmm," she murmured. Dobby opened one of her notebooks and leafed through it.

I couldn't wait anymore. "How is…everything?" I asked, lowering my voice.

"Achilles is just fine. As are the others. They're in a good place, so you have no need to worry," Dobby assured me. "The Templars are on high alert, though. We've suspended operations until things settle down."

"Is there something I can do?"

Dobby raised a brow. "You know what? Achilles told me you'd say that. So he told me to tell you that you should keep a low profile."

"But I'm living with the Grand Master. There has to be something I can do."

"Trust me, we're all aware. But for now, do nothing. Just be a college student – do your homework, or write a paper, or whatever you have to do. Lie low. Get your father to trust you. And then we'll make a decision."

My voice was strained and angry when I spoke again. "Dobby…"

But Dobby – as usual – would have none of it. "Oh, don't give me those angry puppy-dog eyes. Want me to share a secret with you? That might hold you off."

I went silent at that, and Dobby laughed.

"Achilles has some big plans for you once we have everything in place. We all do, actually. We were thinking…maybe you could pose as a Templar. Sort of like Clipper was for a while, but you'll be able to get even closer to the heart of Abstergo."

I was taking a sip of coffee when she said that and I very nearly spit it across the table. "You want me to do what?"

"Infiltrate the Order. Suck up to your old man a bit, feign interest in his cause if and when it comes up. You know." She shrugged sort of half-heartedly. "You could do some real damage. Get close enough to assassinate Reginald Birch – he's one of the higher-ups, you know. Even higher up in the Order than your dad."

"I suppose," I said, lowering my gaze. The thought of betraying my father seemed…distasteful, for some reason. I thought back to our conversation just two nights ago. Haytham was – against my initial wishes – beginning to feel more like a father to me than I ever expected he would. Or at least he seemed more like a friend.

"Is something wrong?"

I snapped myself out of my thoughts and looked up to see Dobby scribbling something in one of her notebooks.

"It's nothing," I told her. "I'm just…thinking things through."

"I know. It would be a very difficult and dangerous operation," she said with a touch of sympathy. "But Achilles thinks you're almost ready. And you're the only one who could pull this off, Connor."

"I'd be abusing my father's trust."

"So? He's a Templar Grand Master. He's just as dangerous and cunning as the rest of them – a little family blood won't change that."

I went quiet again, and Dobby reached out to put a hand over mine.

"Connor, think about what he'd do if he found out you're an Assassin. You haven't seen Haytham Kenway in action like Achilles has. He and his men nearly killed off the entire Brotherhood. He wouldn't hesitate to kill you too, if he had to."

"He…" I stopped myself from protesting. Dobby was right – she always was.

But it still put a bad taste in my mouth.

Dobby gave my hand a quick squeeze and took it away. "You remember what Achilles said about those days. They were bloody, horrible – so many Assassins died because of the Templars. The Brotherhood would be lost if it weren't for you two."

"I know that," I said with a little more force than necessary.

"Then you know you have to be ready when the time comes. You're probably going to have to do a lot worse than just betray Haytham."

"I know," I said again. It brought me back a rainy night, back when I was only fifteen and barely aware of the conflict between the Assassins and the Templars. I remember holding a print-out in my hand, a hazy photograph of the man I knew was Haytham Kenway. Thunder cracked outside, and I could hear the wind battering the manor. But nothing could distract me from Achilles' words:

"You're going to have to prepare yourself," he told me that night. "One day you'll have to fight these men."

"Even my father," I murmured, still staring at Haytham's picture.

"Especially your father."

I was still staring into my nearly-full cup when Dobby spoke to me again.

"You're awfully distracted today, Connor," she said, tapping the table with the butt of her pen. "This is just my opinion, but maybe it's not such a good idea to stay with your father. You might get too…close."

"No," I assured her. "It'll be fine. I can do what needs to be done when the time comes."

"I hope so," she said. "But in any case… I should probably get going. Your shadow's gone, but I have a feeling he's going to report this to whoever sent him. I want to get as far away from Abstergo as I can before they start doing a background check."

"I should go too."

Dobby gathered up her things, but not before reaching out to put her hand back on my shoulder.

"You're sure you're all right?" she asked one more time.

"I am. Tell Achilles I said hi. And to be careful."

"He's nothing but."

\---

I came home a few hours later to find Haytham in the kitchen. I don't know what surprised me more: seeing him in casual clothes, or watching him wrestle an uncooked chicken into the oven.

"Welcome back," he said when he saw me lingering in the doorway. "I didn't hear you leave."

"I was meeting with one of my instructors."

"At the school?"

"We got coffee and discussed next week's exam."

"Ah," he said. Haytham slammed the oven door shut and dusted his hands on a towel. "How kind of this instructor to meet with you on the weekend before a break."

I couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not. "Yeah, I guess," I said instead. "What are you making?"

"Oh, just working a little something up for dinner. I'm glad you got home early, actually – I was just about to call and ask you to come home. We're having a guest."

I was reaching for a glass from the cupboard when he said that. My fingers froze in midair, still grasping.

"A guest?" I repeated dubiously.

"A co-worker. I actually haven't had a chance to introduce you to anyone, so I thought this might be an appropriate opportunity." He turned then, and gestured to the table with the knife he was holding. "I got your grandfather's number, by the way. I wrote it down over there."

"Thanks," I said, still wary. "Ah, who-"

"Your aunt is eager to speak to you as well. She wasn't happy to hear that you were out when I called," Haytham added with a chuckle. "Jenny is a good woman – her bark is worse than her bite."

This time I didn't wait for a pause. "Who is coming to dinner?" I asked – so fiercely that Haytham actually turned away from his work to give me a strange look.

"His name is William Johnson. He's a good friend of mine, and very capable."

"He's the only one coming?"

"Yes. What are you so strung up about?"

"Nothing. I…don't like meeting new people."

"It will be perfectly fine. He won't stay long, I promise."

I said no more, and Haytham returned to whatever he was doing at the counter. I wasn't sure if I should breathe a sigh of relief or not; on one hand, I was glad it wasn't Charles Lee who was coming.

But I was still going to spend my night eating dinner with a Templar Grand Master and one of his lackeys.

Great.


	17. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dang, I'm on a roll with these chapters lately. I've hit a point in the story where the words are coming really easily, and I've figured out how to fit writing between classes and work. Thank you so much again for your wonderful reviews, kudos, and patience with me through all of this! You guys are the best and I appreciate your support more than I can express in words alone. :)

How angry would Haytham have been if I left the house before dinner? I actually considered it – briefly – in the hour before his Templar companion was due. In the end I decided it wasn't worth the suspicion it would arouse when I had to explain why I'd suddenly disappeared. I didn't think he'd buy the "I was out visiting friends" or "I had to see another professor" excuses.

Instead I spent the time in my room, debating whether or not I should strap my hidden blade to my wrist and hide it under the sleeve of my jacket. Achilles would advise it – I imagined him telling me "You're going to be with two Templars, boy, and one of them is a Grand Master!" – but if Haytham found out… I didn't want to think about what would happen.

I was still holding the gauntlet in my hand when I heard the knock. And then I was setting it aside before Haytham even answered the front door. This was just a dinner – a simple dinner with my father and a colleague. There was nothing unusual about that.

Aside from the fact that I was an Assassin preparing to dine with two Templars.

"Connor!" he called, but I was already making my way down the stairs. Haytham was waiting beside a Templar I remembered from Achilles' collection of photographs. Johnson's hands were clasped behind his back, and he somehow seemed…kinder than I expected. He was grinning when I came to stand before them.

"This is William Johnson, a close colleague of mine," my father said. He reached out to put a hand on my shoulder, and I tried not to flinch. "William, this is my son."

"A pleasure to meet you, Connor. Your father has told me a bit about you," Johnson said. He held out a hand. I shook it, albeit reluctantly.

"I thought you hadn't told anyone about me," I blurted, sneaking a glance in Haytham's direction.

"I haven't introduced you to anyone. Mr. Johnson is the first to meet you."

I wanted to ask who else in Abstergo knew I existed, but this time I managed to hold my tongue.

"It's nice to meet you," I said instead. Johnson's grin widened.

"You look just like your mother, you know."

I stopped breathing. It felt like someone dropped a ton of bricks down my throat, and for a moment, I couldn't speak either.

What surprised me more was that Haytham wasn't fazed at all. "He does, doesn't he?" he said. "I see more of Ziio in him every day."

"You knew my mother?" I finally managed.

"Only briefly, to be honest. I saw her several times but we only spoke once or twice. I've worked closely with the people on your reservation, you see."

"Ah…"

Haytham glanced between us for a moment, satisfied with our brief conversation. He clapped his hands together and said, "Well, dinner should be about ready. I've baked a chicken and roasted potatoes."

"Excellent," Johnson said. He followed my father to the dining room – maybe I should have offered to help him set the table earlier, but it was too late now – and took a seat. I sat across from them, at the opposite end, and wondered how often Haytham hosted other Templars for dinner. Maybe this was a regular thing – and I was about to find out the hard way.

The food was already there – and I had to admit, it looked and smelled delicious. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had a real, home-cooked meal. Something that a member of my family had made almost completely by hand.

My mouth was watering. I realized then that I hadn't eaten all day – no breakfast, no lunch. I'd been too busy meeting up with Dobby.

Haytham was watching me from across the table. "Help yourself," he offered, and I immediately scooped up a few spoonfuls of potatoes. They were still steaming.

"How often do you go back to the reservation?" Johnson asked, rather innocently. "Do you have other family there?"

Just what was he getting at? I chewed my potatoes thoughtfully, trying to decide whether or not it was safe to answer.

"Your grandmother still lives there, doesn't she? I met her a few times when your mother and I were still together," Haytham offered, also innocent.

Thanks, Dad.

"She still lives there. I call her sometimes but I haven't been to the reservation in a while," I said. Haytham passed me the plate of chicken and I grabbed the last leg and one of the wings.

"I have fond memories of your grandmother. Once she got to know me, that is," Haytham said with a laugh. "It was difficult at first. She wasn't sure if I was good enough for Ziio."

From the sound of things, you weren't, I almost said. But I kept my mouth shut, except to take another bite of chicken and potatoes.

"I believe I met her a few times. More than your mother, but not much," Johnson added.

"I don't remember seeing you around the reservation," I said warily.

"I'm not surprised. I think I only went back once or twice after you were born. And I didn't know who you were, so I didn't look for you."

I nodded absently. My mouth was full again.

"So," I began slowly, when neither Haytham nor Johnson spoke again. "You work together?"

"Yes. Your father is my boss, actually," Johnson said with a laugh. "He gives the order and I follow it."

"Sometimes."

"Always."

Haytham was laughing now too. "William is one of my best employees. I'll admit, I've put more trust in him than any of my others – don't tell that to Charles, though."

My fork stopped halfway between the plate and my lips. My father noticed this, though I tried to shove the food in my mouth before he could say anything.

"Are you interested in the workings at Abstergo?" Johnson asked, his hands folded over the table. He'd already managed to finish the majority of his meal; only a handful of chicken bones were left, along with the uneaten skins of his potatoes. I scowled at his wastefulness.

"Sort of, I guess. It's a game and pharmaceutical company, isn't it?" I asked.

"Among other things, yes."

I picked at the last of my chicken leg. We were entering dangerous territory now. One wrong word and the Templars would be all over me in seconds.

"Abstergo seems…vague," I said. It sounded safe enough.

"Not exactly vague," Haytham corrected, pointing at me with the sharper end of his fork. "We just…cover a lot of ground."

"I…see. I guess."

"I suppose it all sounds very complicated to someone on the outside."

I raised an eyebrow. "Just a little."

Johnson and my father were quiet for a while. Haytham took a sip of his wine and exchanged a glance with his co-worker. I looked back and forth between the two, like I was trying to read their minds.

"Have you been to the Abstergo buildings before?" Johnson asked. He looked to Haytham. "Have you taken him?"

"I haven't," Haytham said, though he looked back to me with interest.

"No," I told them carefully.

My father exchanged a look with Johnson, who nodded so slightly that I almost didn't catch the motion.

"Would you like to come with me sometime this week? Perhaps Monday morning, or Tuesday? If you don't already have plans, of course," Haytham offered. He said it so nonchalantly that I was almost convinced he was calm.

"We could show you around," Johnson added.

I paused – probably too long – and put my fork down. So much was happening; so suddenly, and so fast.

This was what Achilles was hoping for though, wasn't it? He hadn't actually given me clearance for this mission yet, but…Dobby had hinted that he would sooner or later.

I was a full-fledged Assassin. A member of the Brotherhood – not just Achilles' apprentice anymore.

"Sure," I said, nodding slowly. "I guess it wouldn't hurt. I've been kind of curious about what you do."

Haytham and Johnson exchanged another one of their looks. I pretended not to notice.

"It will be good to have younger blood around. You can meet some of our other colleagues," Johnson said after a pause. "And who knows? Something at Abstergo might interest you. Have you decided on a career yet?"

"No. I'm still trying to finish school."

Haytham scowled at my tone, but Johnson only chuckled. "That's perfectly fine. I meant, do you have anything in mind for after? Something you're particularly passionate about, perhaps?"

Taking down the Templar Order was at the top of my priority list, but of course I couldn't tell that to Johnson. Could you be a professional Assassin in this day and age? I'd have to ask Achilles.

"I haven't really thought about it," I said. At least I wasn't completely lying.

Another look between my father and his friend. They weren't even trying to be subtle now.

"Maybe you will find something you like at Abstergo," Johnson said meaningfully.

"Maybe," I agreed, stabbing at the last of my chicken.

"There are other things I would like to discuss with you, aside from that," my father said. "But we can go over that later. Dessert?"

Johnson nodded. "I always wind up eating more than my fill when I come to your house."

Haytham began gathering up the dishes. "It feels good to cook for someone other than myself."

I jumped up to help him. Johnson stayed seated while we went back to the kitchen.

"Are you sure you want to go? Don't feel like you have to say yes just because William is here," Haytham said when we were alone. His voice was so quiet, I almost didn't hear it above the clatter of plates and glasses.

"It's fine. I want to go," I insisted. I was getting excited now. Anxious.

He nodded. "Good. I'm glad. I don't want to force you."

"Why would you be forcing me?"

Haytham hesitated for a moment. He turned the sink on, turned it off. Moved the plates around.

"I know who your guardian is."

My breath caught for the third time that night. "How? Are you spying on me?"

"No, no. Not exactly. Abstergo is a big company – we have access to a lot of different resources."

"So you were spying on me."

"No, Connor! No. You are my son. I was curious about who was taking care of you – who your mother entrusted with your care after she passed. Why didn't she send you to me? Why to a man I don't know?"

"She knew Achilles. She trusted him."

"I know that. I understand. I just... I wanted to know who raised my son. I wanted to know why she never told me about you."

I was breathing harder, faster now. "And do you know why?"

"Yes. I think I do now."

He knew.

There were two Templars in the house and they probably both knew.

I took a step back and ran into the sink. Why didn't I strap my hidden blade on when I had the chance?

"Connor," he said, reaching a hand out. I shrugged away from him.

"I invited Johnson here tonight because I was hoping he might help me to…convince you to visit Abstergo with me. This is not a trap, I promise. You're my son, Connor, and I would never even consider betraying you like that."

He was acting. This was fake. He was setting up a trap for me and he was trying to use my emotions to manipulate me.

"I know you have spent nearly five years with Achilles Davenport, but I was still hoping that I might show you…a different side of things. I was hoping that I might still have a chance to talk to you. Do you understand?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that Achilles has only shown you one side of the coin. There's a completely different side, Connor. All I want is for you to see things from a new angle. Before it's too late."

Something about him seemed so sincere. Achilles and the others warned me that he might do this – try to use our father and son relationship to his absolute advantage – but… His words were true. I could see that in his eyes. They weren't empty or cold. They were…

Sad? Concerned?

Years of Assassin training begged me not to trust this man. But this was a perfect opportunity to get closer to the Templars, to find and exploit their weaknesses, to-

To see a different side of things, maybe.

That might help me understand them better. Understand their faults. Understand why the Assassins wanted them gone.

I took another slow breath. I could defend myself if I needed to, and Haytham didn't seem hell-bent on my destruction just yet. I let my shoulders relax, let myself slide out of a defensive stance I hadn't even realized I'd taken.

"…Okay," I said, quietly. "Okay. Show me this 'other side' you keep telling me about."

Haytham grinned, and somehow I could tell that was sincere too.


	18. A Chance Encounter

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," was Johnson's response to my plans.

I was resetting an Animus as he spoke. It was tricky business – anything could go wrong, and the machine might break or hurt the next person to use it – but I'd done it so many times that I could peck away at keys without thinking about it.

"Why not?" I asked, never looking up from my task.

"Because he's been with Achilles for long enough that he trusts the man more than he trusts you."

"He might not be converted yet."

"And what are the odds of that?"

"Not very high," I admitted carefully, "but I would be wasting an opportunity if I didn't take the chance."

Johnson's brow furrowed. "It's a big risk, Haytham. What if he reports back to Achilles or the other Assassins? What if he learns our secrets?"

I did look at him this time. My eyebrow was raised and my lips were quirked. "Do you really think I'm so stupid that I would share Order secrets with him?"

"No, of course not-"

I waved a hand in his direction. "It will be fine, William. I just want to see how deep he is in the Assassin cause – and how likely it would be for me to drag him back out."

"You trust the boy more than you should."

"I know. But he's my son."

"That doesn't necessarily mean he's as bright as you."

I chuckled dryly. "I'm putting faith in him. Let's give him a chance."

"Of course."

After that we'd made plans for the dinner – which had not gone quite the way I'd planned, but things panned out in my favor all the same. Connor was coming to Abstergo and I had an actual chance of converting him to the right side. To our side.  _My_ side, where he belonged; not with those starry-eyed Assassins who still fancied themselves a 'brotherhood' despite the fact that their numbers were abysmally low and they had absolutely no chance of survival.

My son deserved a chance.

I saw Connor's entire body tense the moment we stepped through Abstergo's doors. He glanced in my direction, then relaxed.

"Nervous?" I asked him. "It will be fine. I'm only going to show you around."

"Mhm," he replied quietly. It was difficult to tell if it was a noise of agreement or the opposite.

I took him through one of the back ways; a short hallway that led to the administrator's elevator, instead of the front lobby. Charles usually took that way, and most mornings he would wait for me so he could give me a report on the weekend's goings-on. I had to find out why Connor was so against him before they met – before either of them had a chance to do something rash.

"I'm glad you decided to come with me today," I told my son as the elevator climbed to the topmost floors. "I almost thought you would go against it."

"I almost did," he admitted.

"May I ask why you took the risk?"

"I'm…curious."

"As am I."

He gave me a strange look. "What do you mean by that?"

"I want to see how much you think you know about us. How many lies have been stuffed in that head of yours."

Connor snorted. "Because you can do no wrong, of course."

"Of course."

He smirked – but only briefly before the expression was wiped away, replaced by an emotionless frown.

The elevator doors opened to another hallway. This one led to the offices – mine included – but I led Connor away from it, down to a door at the very end. I nudged it open and he drew a breath at the sight beyond.

The rows and cubicles of Animus units waited for us, beeping softly in the early morning and devoid of Assassin – or possibly civilian – subjects. They wouldn't be running until later in the afternoon, and even then Mondays were reserved for the curious outsiders who wanted to relive their ancestors' pasts, or perhaps run through one of the memory fragments stored in Abstergo's Cloud system.

The Assassin subjects would be attached in the evening, after the official closing hours. Connor would be gone long before then.

"Do you know what these are?" I asked, gesturing to the units. The few scientists who were out prepping them paid us no mind.

"Animus," he said. "You put people in them to see their memories."

"Yes, but that is only part of it. You can-"

"Experience the lives of their ancestors. I know. I've seen the articles online."

I gave him a look from the corner of my eye. He returned it.

"I did my homework," he said, and I laughed.

"Good. That saves me a bit of explaining," I said, and beckoned for him to follow me past the units.

"Why do people use these?" he asked, reaching out to run his hand along the sleek body of one.

"Because they're curious. They want to see times long past, or revisit people they used to know…" I shrugged. "There are plenty of reasons."

His gaze flicked back to me. "Have you ever used one?"

"A few times."

"Willingly?"

I hesitated for a moment too long, and Connor made a sound of disgust.

"It's not what you think," I started, but he cut straight through my sentence.

"They force even their own into the machines," he said – practically spat the words out like they were poison.

"I volunteered," I clarified before he could continue his little tirade. "My superior asked, and I told him I would do it."

"Your 'superior' asked, so you couldn't say no."

I spun around and stopped in front of him. Connor thudded against my chest, his eyes full of anger and his mouth twisted up in a furious scowl.

"Perhaps that is how things work in the Brotherhood. Here, we have a choice," I said, my voice cold and hard as steel. "Now keep your voice down. Don't argue with me here."

Connor seemed to strain against himself, but he took a good look at our surroundings and – blessedly – kept his mouth shut. The boy had some sense in him after all.

I followed his gaze. Fortunately the scientists didn't seem to hear us; they were still too absorbed in their complex tasks. I motioned to Connor again and this time led him back to my office.

"Did you bring me here to put me in one of those? To find out if I've already been  _converted_  or not?" he demanded as soon as I shut the door.

"No. That was never my intention. I brought you here to do as I said I would – to show you around, to answer any questions you might have."

"Where are the Assassins you've captured? Do you have a prison for them?"

"That's hardly any of your-"

"Were you going to show me that? Show me what happens if I decide to stay with Achilles?"

"Did I not make my intentions clear enough before? I am not. Here. To hurt you," I said, emphasizing each word. "Are you so convinced that I'm your enemy? Is that what Achilles and his people have drilled into your head these past five years?"

"They haven't  _drilled_ anything into my head."

Connor's voice was quiet, angry – but it seemed to calm when he spoke again.

"Wouldn't you be just as wary in enemy territory?"

"Connor." I wanted to reach forward, to put my hands on his shoulders, but I stopped myself. "I am not your enemy."

He watched me angrily, but he said no more. He was waiting for me to continue, to convince him.

"Let me tell you something," I said, my voice gone quiet. "I was almost an Assassin, once. A very long time ago. You come from a line of Assassins, actually – it's in your blood, so I'm honestly not surprised that you were drawn back to the Brotherhood."

Connor looked at me as though I'd sprouted another head. "How can…?"

"Something happened. I saw that their path was not the one I could fight for. I saw more sense in what the Templars endorsed – freedom, but with some control. Not absolute, of course, but enough that the people would not run wild as they would under Assassin rule."

"The Assassins don't  _want_ to rule. They want the people to be able to decide for themselves, to  _live_ for themselves-"

"So they say. But can people truly live that way? Can a population as big as this country's be trusted to control itself? There would be chaos, Connor – so much chaos that the world would eventually collapse."

"How can you say it'll happen that way if you've never seen it for yourself? The Templars exterminate the Assassins at every turn-"

"Our aim is not to exterminate. Nor is it to control. Not absolutely, at least," I said. I was surprised that I'd managed to maintain my composure for so long; usually someone wound up screaming in the midst of these Assassin and Templar arguments. Connor was still calm as well, but I could see an undercurrent of anger running through his eyes and lurking just beneath the surface of his words. The boy was fuming, but he refused to let himself lose control against me.

"I have seen both sides of the conflict," I continued when he said no more. "This gives me a unique perspective. You would have this perspective as well, son. I believe it helps to have seen things from both sides."

"…What could have happened to drive you away from the Assassins?"

Memories of that night came back, sharp and too focused, but I brushed them away before they could cut me.

"It doesn't matter. I'll tell you someday, but not today – it's not relevant to what we're discussing."

"But if it made  _you_ convert, wouldn't it have the same effect on me?"

He was teasing me now. I gave him a silencing look, but Connor refused to budge.

"I believe in what the Assassins are doing," he said. "Their freedom is not one that would cause chaos – it's the opposite, in fact. The people deserve to be free, not to have their decisions made for them by some faceless company."

"Abstergo is not…" But I stopped myself. I was beginning to sound defensive, and this argument was growing tired. I ran a hand over my face and sighed.

"May I show you something?" I asked instead.

Connor hesitated for a moment. "Sure," he said after a pause.

"Come here," I said, taking a seat behind my desk. I reached into one of the drawers and retrieved a file while he came to stand beside me, fists clenched at his waist.

"What is it?" he asked. I was loading a disc into my computer, but I didn't respond right away.

"Just watch," I commanded.

Connor opened his mouth again, but closed it when an image materialized on the screen. It was an Assassin, which was plain to see: he had the hooded jacket, and one of the cuffs was torn away to reveal the Brotherhood's insignia tattooed to the inside of his wrist. In this video he was standing in the middle of an Abstergo room; the red of the blood on his sleeves was a stark, almost blinding contrast to the crisp white of his surroundings.

Reginald entered the room, followed by a much younger version of myself. I stood at the camera's periphery, but Reginald placed himself front and center – as he was (and still is) apt to do. The Assassin watched him with a frown that wasn't concealed by his hood.

"Can you tell us what happened, exactly?" Reginald asked, hands clasped behind his back.

The Assassin sneered and folded his arms over his chest. "Your lackeys were there. Why don't you ask them?"

"Because I'm here, and I'm asking you."

There was a moment of silence as the Assassin stared and Reginald waited. I watched my younger self shuffle impatiently, unsure of what I needed to do.

"Tell me about Achilles Davenport," Reginald said, and both the Assassin on-screen and my son beside me started.

"Nothing worth telling," the Assassin said, but Reginald was shaking his head.

"Tell me about Mr. Davenport. Tell me what he did this evening."

"He did what he had to do."

"Which was...?"

"Protect his family."

"At the expense of so many lives?"

The Assassin's entire body tensed. I felt Connor's follow in suit.

"Tell me what happened tonight," Reginald said again, but the Assassin turned away.

"You already know."

"Tell me again."

"Your men were there! They  _saw_! They  _saw_ what happened, they  _saw_ all the blood,  _saw_  all the bodies..." The man trailed off, breath hitching in the back of his throat, shoulders quivering either with anger or sadness. Or both. Even I didn't know, and I'd seen him there with my own eyes. He pulled the hood down farther over his face.

"There was a massacre tonight, and Mr. Davenport is responsible," Reginald said quietly.

The Assassin started to shake his head again, but he stopped himself. "It wasn't all Achilles's fault. The Templars are to blame, too."

"We did not start this," Reginald corrected. "But we had to end it. And now we have to clean it up."

The video cut and ended. I ejected the disc from my computer and waited patiently for Connor to speak. He said nothing for a long time, long enough that I was able to file the disc back in my desk and lock it with a key.

"How do I know that wasn't faked?" he asked. His voice was almost silent, but laced with rage. "How do I know those weren't actors?"

"Reginald Birch is real enough. I trust you know his name? Go back to Achilles's manor and look it up."

"What about the...'Assassin' in the video? He could have been one of your own."

"Andreas Gallo. Go ahead and look his name up, if you'd like. I'm sure any one of your Assassin brothers would recognize it," I replied. "This only happened a decade or so ago, Connor. I'm sure Achilles has told you about it, or at least hinted - it's during the time that we supposedly 'exterminated' the entire Brotherhood, save Achilles Davenport himself."

"He told me about that. Well, hinted-"

"We did not seek to 'exterminate' the Brotherhood," I said before he could continue, before he could launch himself into another argument. "Reginald wanted to speak with them, actually. He suggested a meeting between both the Order and the Brotherhood's best and brightest. He hoped we could all reach some sort of agreement and bring an end to this ages-long argument. It never happened, though - we arrived at the meeting spot and were ambushed by the Assassins. They sought to take us out instead of speak. That was what happened."

"I doubt it," Connor said, but there was a different tone to his voice now - there was less anger and more disbelief.

"Ask Achilles. I'm sure he can tell you all about it."

"You want me to question him. To break away from the Brotherhood, to-"

"I only want you to see the truth, son. You've only seen one side of the equation for the last five years - or longer, I don't know. You deserve to know everything if you're going to be forced into this war."

"Achilles never forced me to be an Assassin," Connor said, putting voice to what I'd feared for the last few months - that he had been inducted into the Brotherhood, that he was one of them. "I wanted to fight for them. I believe in their cause. In freedom."

"The Templars want freedom as well-"

"But at a cost."

I turned to him then and met his gaze. He wasn't as furious as before; his eyes were subdued. He was seeing reason now, finally. I was getting somewhere.

"All freedoms come with a cost, son. If people were left to their whims, then where would we be? In chaos. This is why things like the government exist - not to control, but to guide. The people need a guide more than anything. Would you prefer to see a world ravaged by savagery and violence? By blood and fire? This is what would happen if absolute freedom was left to rule."

"You keep saying that, but..."

Connor trailed off after a moment, exasperated. I allowed myself to stand then.

"It's a lot to take in. It takes time. I was skeptical at first, myself," I admitted. "Would you like to see more of the building? There's plenty to look at. We don't have to discuss this anymore."

"I... sure. I guess," he said.

I stepped away from the desk and started for the door. Someone knocked - and, before I could permit them entry, stepped through.

"Sir," I breathed. Connor came to a sudden stop beside me.

Reginald Birch smiled benevolently at the both of us. He wasn't supposed to be here this early in the week - this early in the day, even. The only reason I'd brought Connor with me was because I knew there would be little chance of running into Charles Lee and even less of seeing Reginald.

"Good morning, Haytham," he said, taking no notice of our surprise. "Who have you brought with you today?"

"This is my son. Connor, this is Reginald Birch," I said, reaching back to put a hand on Connor's shoulder. I felt his muscles tense beneath my palm.

"Hello," he said, omitting the 'sir' I wished he would have tacked on.

Reginald's smile evaporated, but only for a moment - just long enough for both my son and myself to take notice. There was curiosity there, and then - what I feared the most - triumph.

"Now, Haytham, you never told me you were a father," he said. "And your son is nearly grown! You've hidden him from us for so long."

"Not hidden, exactly. I only just found out myself a few months ago."

"I see," he said, grin widening. My grasp on Connor's shoulder turned protective, and I had to fight the urge to hide him behind my own body.

"Well, Connor, it was a pleasure meeting you. I hope you enjoy your time here," he said, and began to turn away.

"Was there something you needed, sir?" I asked.

"Ah... Just a simple question, really. About one of our projects," he said meaningfully. "I'll ask you about it later, after you've given Connor a full tour."

"Of course."

Reginald gave us a wave before he returned to the otherwise empty hall. I kept my hand on Connor's shoulder until he shrugged it off a few moments later.

"I didn't know he would be here," I said by way of apology.

"What was with that look he gave me?"

"Nothing, I hope," I said. Lied.

The look in his eyes was the same one he'd given me when he realized he could put me through the Animus.

But I would protect Connor from that - I had to.


	19. Reginald's Proposal

 

Reginald at least had the decency to wait until my son left later that afternoon.

"I didn't know you had any children," he said, cornering me in my office once Connor was gone. "Why didn't you tell me about him?"

"As I said before, I only just found out myself."

"How old is he now? Eighteen, nineteen? And the mother never told you about him?"  
Something in Reginald's voice set me on edge.  _The mother._  Ziio was more than that, more important than he made her out to be... But I brushed the comment aside and shook my head.

"We did not part on the best of terms."

"Ahh," he said, nodding like he understood. Reginald stood with his back to me, hands clasped, watching the antlike people through the window as they moved on the sidewalk so many stories below us. "Still. This is a most...fortunate development. Very fortunate. Did you bring him here for a test run."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because he's not ready."

Reginald looked back to me then, his gaze sharper, his tone crisp. "He's older than you were when you went into the Animus. He looks more than ready to me."

"He didn't know about my work until just last night. He barely knew about the Animus-"

"Haytham."

Something in his voice made me stop. It was a knee-jerk reaction, one he'd instilled in me from the time I was a very young man. I hated that it still had such control over me now, in my later years.

"You will have to bring him in sometime, you know. Hopefully soon. We're running out of time."

"The Assassins have gone into hiding. There's  _plenty_ of time."

"They'll be organizing against us. We've trapped them in a corner and they won't go down without a fight. We must be prepared for  _anything_  - and we must move quickly if we're to get to the Apple before them."

"I understand that."

"Then set up a time to bring him in."

"If we couldn't find it through my memories, then why do you think we could find it through his?"

"Perhaps his are clearer. Many of yours were blocked."

"Yes, but..." I trailed off, and Reginald looked down on me triumphantly.

"It won't kill the boy, Haytham. He'll be just fine. And who knows? He may make just as wonderful a Templar as you someday. Perhaps run his own branch. You could work together as close allies," he said, his voice smooth as honey. "Has he expressed an interest in joining the Order?"

"Not yet."

Reginald nodded faintly. "He may soon."

I grunted my agreement, seeing as how I couldn't tell him that being in the Animus most likely  _could_  kill him. Especially when the others saw that he was an Assassin, that he worked closely with and trained under Achilles...

Someone knocked at my office door then. I could see through the frosted glass that it was Charles, and I tried not to sigh. Perfect timing, as always.

"Come in," Reginald said before I could. Charles did, and he brightened when he saw the two of us.

"Good afternoon, sirs," he said. "Am I interrupting something...?"

"Not at all. We were just discussing Haytham's son. Did he tell you about the boy?"

The confusion was obvious on Charles's face. "His...? No, he didn't."

I stifled another sigh. Thank you, Reginald. Thank you very much.

"I will leave you to it then," he said, moving past Charles. "And I will speak to you later, Haytham. Don't forget to set up an appointment."

"Yes," I said absently. Reginald closed the door behind us, and Charles rounded on me like a hound on the scent.

"You have a  _son_? For how long now?" he asked. "Why didn't you tell us? Me?"

I held up a hand for silence. Charles complied, albeit reluctantly.

"I just found out recently. His mother and I were not on good terms," I said, repeating again the story I had just told Reginald. "It is not something I've shared with many people. It was not my intention to leave you out."

"As your second in command, I would have thought... Never mind," Charles said. He sat down in the chair across from mine and folded his hands over his lap. "Forgive me, but it's...difficult to imagine you as a father. No offense."

"None taken. I can hardly imagine myself as a father, and yet... Here I am."

"When did you find out? Did his mother tell him who you are?"

"A few months ago. And yes. He only just decided to contact me recently. He's in college now," I told him. Saying it out loud brought a pang of regret; like I was realizing just then that I'd missed out on so many years of my son's life. What had he been like as a child, I wondered? I imagined briefly a very serious little boy, with his mother's fierce eyes but her cutting sense of humor. The image was banished when Charles spoke up once more.

"What is his name, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Connor."

"Connor..." Charles knit his brows together. And then it dawned on him, and I realized I'd made a mistake.

"Was he... Is it just a coincidence that there was a boy named Connor in that Assassin's memories...? Now that I think about it, he  _did_  look familiar..."

I could have slapped myself. But it was too late now, and lying would only hurt us later.

"Yes. He is the same."

"Does Reginald know-"

"No. Not yet. And I would prefer to keep it that way."

Charles leaned back in his seat. "Yes. My lips are sealed," he said. "But does this mean he's one of them? Did Achilles train him? How did he end up in that man's care?"

"He was a family friend, apparently. His mother's will stated that he was to be sent to Davenport if something happened to her."

"Ah... I apologize."

"He is under my care now, though. I plan to bring him into the Order as soon as possible. I dread to think what would happen to him if he stayed with Achilles."

"Of course. I would as well, if my own children were in the hands of an Assassin. And one of their masters to boot!" He shook his head back and forth. "It's an interesting turn of events, when you think about it. A Grand Master's son raised by a master Assassin..."

"Not a turn I would have preferred."

If only I had stayed close to Ziio... Things would not have turned out this way. Connor would be safe now, either as a friend of the Templars or as a member of the Order himself. Now I was stuck with this great dilemma that could put us both in the path of danger.

Though if I'd known about him from his birth, Reginald would have as well... And he would have been a victim to the Animus sooner rather than later.

"In any case... I came to tell you about something else, sir," Charles said, leaning forward once more. "News from Hickey. Apparently the man couldn't be bothered to come tell you himself. Not that I'm surprised."

He wrinkled his nose, as he was often apt to do any time Thomas Hickey's name was mentioned in his presence. I waved him on, and Charles continued.

"He wanted me to tell you the name of someone you asked him to trail. Dobby? Or something of the like? He was very vague."

"It's all right. I'll make due for now," I said, reaching out to grab a pad of paper. I wrote the woman's name down and made a mental note to investigate her later. I seriously doubted that she was one of Connor's instructors; more likely she was an Assassin in disguise, and she would lead me to the nest that Achilles and his comrades had made.

"Thank you, Charles. Is that all?"

"Yes. For now. I'll send more men out on the streets. The sooner we find an Assassin, the better. And hopefully one with memories we can use to find Achilles."

"Indeed..."

* * *

Connor was in the kitchen when I arrived home later that evening. A malfunction with one of the Animus units - one that would most likely result in charges from the angry and no doubt wealthy civilian who'd been using it - kept me working longer than I would have liked for a Monday. I was tired, and I was irritable, but I smelled something delicious as soon as I walked through the front door. I followed the scent to its source and found Connor standing over an array of pans at the stove.

"What are you up to?" I asked, hoping I sounded more curious than surprised.

"Cooking?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "You were late, so I thought you might be hungry."

I was, now that I thought about it. My stomach rumbled quietly; I hadn't eaten since lunch, and even then my meal had been a rather lackluster sandwich from Abstergo's cafeteria.

"You seem shocked," Connor continued, but I could see him smirking through the steam emanating from the pan in front of him.

"I didn't know you could cook."

"I can. A little, anyway. I've only memorized a few of my mother's recipes."

"I thought that smelled familiar. A curry?"

Now it was Connor's turn to be surprised. "Yes. It was one of the first things she taught me to make."

"It was the first meal she made for me."

Amusement flickered through my son's eyes. "It was one of her favorites. She was probably trying to impress you."

"And she did. It gave me yet another reason to love her."

Connor's expression changed then, and this time it wasn't difficult for me to decipher, because I felt the same deep, quiet sadness. He turned back to his meal, and I busied myself by taking glasses, plates, and silverware from the cupboards.

"Our first date was at her home on the reservation. She made curry and I brought wine. I was trying to impress her with my high class - which didn't work at all, of course," I said, and I turned just in time to see the cheer return to my son's face. He chuckled quietly as he brought the pan from the stove.

"She mentioned something like that," he said. "I wasn't sure what to expect when I met you."

"And the same goes for me. I wasn't sure what to expect either. I hadn't even heard about you until a few days before you contacted me."

Connor sobered as he set the pan in the middle of the table. "Yeah. I wanted to contact you before that, when Ista was still alive, but..."

"It's all right. I understand."

We spooned our food onto our plates in silence, and for a moment I was afraid that my comment had ruined the mood. But I noticed Connor looking in my direction as I brought a forkful of curry to my lips.

And it was wonderful. Flavorful, just like his mother's - but there was something different about it, something I didn't remember from all the times she'd made it for me before. My son had his own twist on the dish, and it wasn't at all unpleasant.

"Excellent," I told him, and I watched my son suppress a satisfied grin.

"Good. I haven't made it in a while, so..."

"It reminds me of your mother's, but there's something different to it. Not a bad something, mind you."

"I added different ingredients. I went to the store after I left Abstergo, but I couldn't find everything I needed... So I substituted a few things."

"I like it. Very much."

Connor nodded, his expression still mildly stoic - but I could see the glow in his eyes, one that I didn't see nearly as often as I would have liked.

"Well, I'm glad it's to your liking," my son said, bringing his own fork to his mouth.

I thought back to what Charles had told me earlier that day - that he couldn't imagine me being a father. Several months ago, if someone had told me that I'd have a son, I would have laughed them right out of my office...after I fired them, most like. The title of "father" wasn't one I'd ever expected after Ziio and I parted ways.

It wasn't exactly a fatherly love I felt for Connor, but there was...something there. Like a new space had opened up in my chest that I hadn't known I could fit there before.

It was a good feeling. I hadn't been a real father for that long at all, but I had to admit, I was - to my surprise, as I sat there chewing curry that my own child had made - enjoying it more than I ever thought I would.

 


	20. Not As Planned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was feeling a little iffy about this chapter while I was writing it. I was hoping I could put off writing Edward until after I’d played ACIV, but this chapter demanded him and I didn’t want to delay it anymore, so… I tried to base it on his personality in Forsaken, since that takes place after everything in ACIV anyway. I’ll go back and make amendments after ACIV if need be (and of course this won’t be the only time he or Jenny appears).

My grandfather’s number sat on my bedside table for several days before I finally worked up the courage to look at it again. I waited until Tuesday, the day after my trip to Abstergo, when my mind was still so full of questions that I couldn’t ignore them anymore: What made Haytham turn to the Templars? Why didn’t he talk to his family anymore? I remembered him mentioning that he and his own father - my grandfather - weren’t on speaking terms, and I wondered if that had anything to do with his past. Any new information would help at this point; I just wanted to understand, to see why he had chosen this path.

I dialed the number before I could change my mind.

It rang once, twice, three times. For a moment I almost pulled the phone away from my cheek to hang it up, but it picked up after the fourth ring and I was greeted by an unfamiliar voice.

"Hello?" it asked. It belonged to a man - gruff and slightly accented. I could hear a dog barking somewhere in the background.

"Um, hi," I said, my mind suddenly going blank. I’d practiced an introduction earlier, and now I couldn’t remember a single word of it.

"…Do you need something?"

"Is Edward Kenway there?"

"This is he. May I ask who is calling?"

"Connor. Um, your… I’m Haytham Kenway’s son."

The line went absolutely silent. I winced, angry with myself and wishing that I’d inherited my father’s way with words. Edward probably thought I was prank calling him and had most likely hung up-

"Who?" he suddenly asked.

So I hadn’t scared him away after all.

"My name’s Connor. My father’s name is Haytham Kenway. He, um…he called Jenny and got this number from her… He said I could call you, but I apologize for doing this out of the blue, and I-"

"Slow down. No need to speak so quickly," Edward said. He sounded understandably confused, and maybe just a bit exasperated. "You do know I haven’t spoken to Haytham in several years?"

"Yeah."

"And he got my number from Jenny."

"Yes. My aunt. His half-sister," I said, fumbling my words, feeling guilty and stupid now. "I’m sorry for just calling you. If you want I could call back or a later time…" Or not at all, I almost added. But I had to speak to him, had to clear things up before my thoughts got too muddled in my head.

"No, no. It’s all right. I’m just…surprised," he said with a short, dry laugh. "So. How old are you, Connor? I want to know how long I’ve been a grandfather without knowing."

"Nineteen."

"Nineteen! That long. You sound older."

"Haytham- My father didn’t know about me until a few months ago."

"Ah. Glad to know I’m not the only one who’s had to cut ties with him."

He chuckled again, but there was a bitter tone to his voice. A sad one. I felt sort of bad for him.

"That was why I called. Besides wanting to talk to you," I admitted. No use beating around the bush - Achilles had always taught me to get to the point. "I was curious about what happened. If you don’t mind talking about it, of course."

"Hm," Edward hummed thoughtfully. "I’d say it’s a family matter, but…"

"I promise I’m not lying about being his son. I know this is all really sudden-"

"I think I believe you."

"…You do?"

"I don’t see how you’d have anything to gain by lying. Mine and Haytham’s relationship isn’t exactly private business, anyway. Though I’d like to know why you’re curious."

I hesitated for a moment, biting my lip. “He took me to Abstergo the other day-“

"He’s trying to recruit you."

"You know about the Order?"

"Of course I do. And I’d wager you do as well."

"I’ve known about them since before he told me."

Edward’s tone changed completely then. “Oh, now  _this_  is interesting. Where did you hear about them?”

I wondered how much was safe to tell. I looked down at my feet for a moment, thoughtful, but Edward continued before I could say a word.

"You’re suspicious. I understand that. It’s a dangerous world. Let me make a guess, then, and you tell me if I got it right: You’re with the Brotherhood, aren’t you? Either as a member or an apprentice, or something else."

My mouth went dry. “I…”

"Don’t bother replying. I can tell from your voice," he said, laughing again - easier this time, looser than before. "Ah, I shouldn’t be surprised at all. Being an Assassin runs in your blood, after all. Haytham tried to run from his past but it looks like it caught up with him. Does he know?"

"I… Yeah. Yes. He does."

"What did he do to you at Abstergo? I’m guessing he didn’t keep you there, or else you wouldn’t be talking to me right now."

"No. He just made an offer."

"Hm. I see. Interesting. He seemed the… _ruthless_  type after he was recruited. I would’ve expected him to lock you up as soon as he found out what you are.”

Everyone seemed to think of Haytham as a ruthless man: Achilles, my mother, and now my grandfather as well. I’d seen flashes of it in him before, but… Was he hiding it from me, or was I seeing a different side of him? So far this conversation was only confusing me more than it was helping.

"I don’t think he’d do that."

"Then we don’t know the same man," Edward said, snorting. "I apologize. I haven’t spoken to my son in a long time, and we didn’t part on the best terms. We had a pretty big row before he left the Brotherhood."

"He was an Assassin?"

"For a time, yes. And a damned good one at that."

"What made him leave?"

"A bastard named Reginald Birch. I’m guessing you’ve heard of him?"

"My mentor told me about him. And most of the other Templars on the east coast."

"He was the Grand Master of a branch here in the UK before he left for the States. Very influential, very powerful. And a very good friend before everything went to hell."

My phone almost slipped out of my hand. “…A friend?”

"We wanted to bridge the gap between Templars and Assassins. Or at least that’s what he  _said_ he wanted, anyway - I know now that it was just a ruse,” Edward said. His voice was darker, angrier now, with an edge sharper than a hidden blade. “He’s not a man to be trusted, Connor. Did you see him at all?”

"No. I haven’t been a full member for long, so I haven’t seen many of the other Templars."

"Have you carried out a mission yet?"

"Just small ones."

"No assassinations?"

I hesitated. “No.”

"No?  _Really_? They’ve gone soft out there. I had Haytham taking contracts when he was several years younger than you.”

"It’s harder now," I said, thinking of everything Achilles had warned me about - heightened security, better systems, a more efficient police system. I knew how to use almost all of the weapons in his arsenal, but I hadn’t used a single one to take a life. And while I wasn’t exactly itching to kill, I was still anxious to get something done, to initiate myself as a real member of the Brotherhood.

"Aye. Yes. The Brotherhood’s more about stealth now," Edward agreed. "But I’ve gotten off track, haven’t I? You wanted to know what happened between me and your father."

"I’m guessing it had to do with his leaving the Brotherhood."

"It was. There was an incident that involved us and Reginald Birch. If I’d followed through with my own contract to kill him, maybe none of this would have happened…"

Edward trailed off for a moment, lost somewhere in a past I couldn’t see. I was about to urge him on when he continued speaking.

"Haytham was about your age, maybe a little younger. Not a full member of the Brotherhood, but very close. I was actually planning out his initiation ceremony around the time this all happened. Reginald had been a family friend before that, for…oh, I’d say a good decade. Haytham knew him growing up. I think the boy admired him, even. They spoke rather often… Looking back now, I realize that Reginald was already doing what he could to convert him. I didn’t see that at the time. I was too confident. I was blind.

"Reginald and I made plans to discuss the future of the Templars and Assassins. It was a few days before our talk when he sent his men to our home. They were former Assassins - sleeper agents, I guess you could say, since I still trusted them at the time. Had no idea they were betraying us until it was too late. When the night was over, I was barely alive, my wife was dead, and my son in a state of disbelief. He knew the traitors as Assassins and thought the entire Brotherhood was going against us - and of course, it didn’t help that Reginald showed up later, practically  _bleeding_  ignorance, and managed to drive the nail in all the way. All that talking he’d done over the years added up, and before I knew it, Haytham was gone. There was nothing I could do except blame myself.”

I didn’t respond for a moment. I had to swallow past the lump in my throat before I could speak again. “Why do all of that for Haytham, though? Why didn’t they…”

"Kill me?" he finished when I didn’t. "I still don’t know, honestly. Dumb luck. But Haytham is… _different_. Our entire line has special blood, but it didn’t really peak until he was born. You know about the Animus, right? Something in our DNA - his, specifically, and probably yours as well - could show the Templars memories they never had access to before. Things about Those Who Came Before. Reginald’s obsessed with them. That was one reason why they wanted him, but there were probably more. I’ve thought about this a lot since it happened - still do - but I haven’t figured it out. Neither have the Assassins we’ve got stationed over in the States.”

"They wanted his memories that badly."

"Yes."

"And he still thinks it was the Assassins who betrayed him?"

"Of course. He wouldn’t have defected to the Templars’ side if he didn’t," Edward said, still angry. I was tearing open old, painful wounds, but I was too curious now to feel guilty.

"I don’t… I’m sorry, but I don’t understand how he could think that if he was an Assassin."

"I told you, didn’t I? Reginald spent a lot of time talking to him - right under my nose. I have a feeling he probably managed to convert Haytham before all of that happened. Haytham’s always thought differently - he’s more methodical, I guess. Thoughtful, calculating. He likes things controlled and organized. I love the boy, but… I shouldn’t have trusted Reginald, but the man is just so damned  _convincing._ For so long I really thought we could end all the bloodshed, all the fighting.”

"I’m sorry," I said again, hoping I sounded more sincere than before. Something in my grandfather’s voice was painful to listen to. "It’s a lot to take in."

"It is," he said. "The offer he made you at Abstergo, though… Did it have anything to do with throwing you in an Animus?"

"Yes, actually, but-"

"Don’t listen to him. Don’t trust him. Don’t trust  _any_ of them, no matter what they tell you. That bastard Reginald probably taught Haytham everything he knows about manipulation, and he’s using it against you now.”

"I don’t think he is."

Edward paused for a moment. “Why not?”

"Haytham doesn’t…seem that way. He talked to me about it, but he didn’t force it. I don’t think he-"

"He’s stringing you along, Connor! He’s doing exactly what Reginald did to me - he’s building up your trust, making you think everything will be fine, but he’s going to turn around and stab you in the back before you have a chance to do so much as blink."

"I think Haytham’s changed since you last knew him. It’s been over twenty years since you saw him, hasn’t it?"

"That changes nothing," Edward all but snarled. "Listen, Connor - I don’t want you to go through the same pain I did. I don’t want to see the Templars lure you in and kill the people around you. I don’t want to hear one day that they’ve taken you prisoner and either killed you too or made you one of their own."

"That isn’t going to happen. I’m…" I’m smarter than that, I almost said, but I managed to stop the words before they left my tongue.

Edward still understood, though. I heard him seethe for a moment before he wrangled in enough of his anger to reply.

"You’re going down a very dangerous path, Connor. Trusting Reginald Birch and the Templars will bring you nothing but pain."

"I’m s-"

But the line went dead. My phone beeped in my ear, but I held it there for a few seconds longer before I let my arm fall back to my side.

Well. That hadn’t gone exactly as planned. I set the phone and Edward’s number back on the bedside table.

He was an Assassin. Somehow I wasn’t as shocked as I thought I should be. I wondered if Achilles knew - and he probably did, but decided to withhold the information until it was relevant enough to share. Did my mother? Did she know that the Brotherhood ran in my blood? Maybe. Maybe not. I’d never know, now.

I was sitting on the edge of the mattress, feeling more lost and confused than I had before I called Edward, when my phone buzzed. I picked it up and checked the messages. The number was unfamiliar, but I knew right away that it belonged to Achilles.

_"Dobby gone. Almost time to move. Will need you soon. Don’t call this number. Delete message."_


	21. Interruptions

It was hard waiting for nightfall after I saw Achilles's message. I made dinner for Haytham again, hoping he'd be tired enough that he'd just want to go to bed, but he was strangely talkative - at first, anyway - asking question after question, repeating the same ones several times before he finally shook his head and sighed.

"I apologize," he said halfway through our meal. "My thoughts are elsewhere tonight."

"Long day?"

"Very."

Even his gaze was far away, lost, staring at something I couldn't see. I could hardly blame him, though; I was picking at my own plate, trying to figure out how I could sneak out of the house (that was the easy part) and how I could get where I needed to go (the hard part) without Haytham finding out. He was already suspicious, and I had a feeling that he was on especially high guard after our visit to Abstergo.

He finally went to bed after ten. I waited until all of his lights were off before I threw on my jacket, strapped my hidden blade to my wrist, and left through the garage.

I'd emailed Clipper earlier in the night and, much to my surprise, he actually responded with a vague series of directions: he and a few others were still in the city, but on the outskirts, living in a farmhouse owned by a lesser-known Assassin couple. "Sometimes it's best to hide right under the Templars' noses," he wrote, and I could imagine him smirking as he typed it. A clever idea, I had to admit, but still a dangerous one.

I cut across the dew-laced front lawn, pulling the hood of my jacket up as I went. The neighborhood was quiet, save for the occasional bark of a dog or a passing car. It was spring break, but this was a street lined with wealthy and mostly childless families; as far as I knew, I would be alone until I caught up with my ride. Which suited me just fine, given that the people here probably wouldn't react well to a young college student prowling their streets with a hoodie pulled over his face.

It took a good half hour of walking before I saw the car. Its headlights blinked twice before the driver's side door opened.

"Connor! It's good to see you," Stephane said, reaching out to give me a one-armed hug and a quick hair ruffle. "How are you? How are your classes?"

"I'm fine, and they're good," I told him. I slipped into the passenger's seat while Stephane returned to the driver's.

"Ah. Very good. Dobby told us that you were fine, but she's..." He trailed off for a moment, and the knuckles of the hands gripping the wheel turned white. "Templar  _bâtard_."

"When did they take her? I only just saw her the other day."

"Yesterday, early morning. She was coming to one of the safe houses."

"Did they-"

"The safe house is...well, it is still safe."

I leaned back against my seat. "That's good."

"It is. We have abandoned it for now, but..." He shrugged.

"Achilles is at the farmhouse?"

"Yes. He will not be happy that you're coming, but we need you. We need the information as soon as possible."

"What does he plan to do?"

"You can ask him that yourself. Even I don't know all of the details."

I nodded, and we rode in silence the rest of the way. The farmhouse was almost half an hour outside the city, tucked away at the bottom of the mountains. Stephane took me up a long and winding path before he finally stopped the car. The road there was silent and unpaved; I could see almost nothing, but he seemed to have memorized the way.

"Here we are," he said. We stepped out of the small patch of woods separating his car from the rest of the property, and I was suddenly greeted by the small, cozy-looking farmhouse. Just looking at it reminded me of the home where I grew up with my mother; it was built in the same style, painted with the same off-white. I half-expected to see Ista when we knocked at the front door, but instead it was a shorter, fairer woman, one I didn't recognize.

"Come in, come in," she said, beckoning to us with an urgent wave of her hand. "Hurry now, but watch your step!"

The inside of the house was just as warm as the outside, though it was very obviously owned by an older couple; the furnishings were rustic and farm-style, all in shades of reds and greens and soft blues. They even had the obligatory set of farm animal figurines set above the fireplace.

Stephane brought me to a door at the end of a narrow hallway, and from there we descended to the basement. I caught snippets of the conversation below before it went hush.

"It is only us," Stephane said. "I've brought a friend."

Clipper met us at the base of the stairs. "Connor! How's the viper's nest?"

"Everything's fine," I said, letting him clap me gently on the shoulder.

"Connor?"

Zenger appeared this time, hefty arms folded over his broad chest, smiling. "You made it! How are you? Your old man giving you a hard time?"

"No, he's-"

"Connor."

The words died in my throat. Zenger and Clipper's grins fell away. Stephane shuffled back toward the staircase, toward the safety of the shadows. I allowed myself to be nudged to the front of the group, where I could see Achilles seated on the other side of the basement. His hands were folded over the tip of his cane.

I took a step forward, steeling myself.

"I know you told me not to come," I started, "but-"

He held up his hand for silence. "I know," he said.

And then he smiled.

"I had a feeling you wouldn't wait on the sidelines for too long. I'm glad you've come, actually. We're almost ready to get started, and you're an important factor in our plan."

"Really?"

"You're our inside, Connor. You have access to Abstergo. Hell, you've got an in with one of the  _Grand Masters_!" Zenger said, his toothy grin returning.

"It's not Haytham I'm focused on," I said. "Charles Lee is  _my_ target. I want a chance at him."

"And you will have one."

We gathered around Achilles in a loose circle. This was the first time in a long while that I'd been in the company of so many Assassins at once; usually we were scattered, stretched thin across the east coast while we did what we could to fend off the Templars. Even Achilles was sitting up straighter than usual, his face set and proud.

"It would be foolish to strike the Abstergo building directly. We've decided to isolate the most influential members and attack them one by one, or in small groups," he said. "Johnson, Hickey, Pitcairn, Church, Lee, Kenway… And of course Reginald Birch. He has the tightest security, so he will be left for the last."

I tried not to let my face betray my misgivings when he announced my father's name. I knew this day would come, knew it for as long as I'd known Achilles; there was no reason for me to be nervous about it now. He was a Grand Master. He had to go.

But I couldn't stop the strange, painful tug I felt in my chest.

"We'll separate into groups," Zenger continued, oblivious to my internal struggle. "Connor will be in Lee's, of course. That's been decided."

"Who will be in Haytham's?"

I tried to ask this as calmly as possible, but Achilles's gaze flickered to mine, and I saw the curiosity and concern there.

"I will," Clipper said.

"I'm taking Church," Zenger added, flexing his arms. "Bastard's had this coming for a while now."

I tried to keep Achilles's eyes on mine. "How will I be able to help?"

"You have access to Abstergo's building now. Feign an interest in the Templar cause. Your father will take it upon himself to start your training."

"He knows I'm an Assassin. He knows I live with you."

Achilles's brow furrowed, and the others fell silent.

"How long has he known?" Achilles asked.

"A few days now, but I suspect longer. He's kept a lot from me."

Zenger rubbed his chin. "And he hasn't taken you into Abstergo as a captive of the Templars? Just as a visitor?"

"Yes. He thinks I can still be…rehabilitated."

"Well, he's got another thing coming," Clipper said with a roll of his eyes.

"This changes nothing. We can still carry out the plan," I argued. "I can show an interest in the Order. I can get whatever information you need – addresses, schedules, whatever. Our groups will eliminate the major Templars and then move on to Birch."

"Haytham will be the first to go."

A dead weight dropped into my stomach. "Why?" I said, my voice shifting just enough that I knew the others could hear it.

"Because he'll know something's wrong when his subordinates start dropping dead. He won't let you roam free. He'll suspect you even more than he does now."

"I don't think-"

"We can't let him live any longer, Connor. He was the one in charge of the purge several decades ago – he has it within his power to be completely violent and endlessly ruthless. He might act the part of a concerned and caring father, but he-"

"I don't think Haytham Kenway is the man we've assumed he is."

Clipper made a noise like he was choking, and Achilles's gaze narrowed so sharply that I thought he might stand up and stick me with the end of his cane. I stood my ground, though, holding his gaze, daring the others to say something.

"I've known him for the last few months. Lived with him."

"For several  _days_ ," Zenger said. "You hardly know him."

"I've known your father for years. Almost since the same month he arrived in the US," Achilles said. His voice was calm – chillingly so. "He  _is_ the man we assume him to be. He's a manipulator, boy, don't you see that? Haven't I told you time and time again? Haven't I shown you the things he's done?"

"That was  _years_  ago! You said it yourself! What if he's changed? What if he can see reason, see that we don't have to work against each other?"

I said this, but as I did, I thought back to what my grandfather had told me; that Haytham's hatred of Assassins stemmed from a Templar betrayal. If I told convince him that that was the truth, would he see the error of things? Or were the Templar ideals really that important to him?

Achilles was shaking his head, though. "The ways of the Order are too deeply ingrained in your father's mind. He's a Grand Master for a reason."

"Still-"

"I knew it was a mistake to let you get close to him. I thought something good might come of it, but…" He shook his head again, sadly this time – and that only made me angrier. My fists clenched at my side, and from the corner of my eye I saw Stephane take a cautious step closer to me.

"Perhaps you should sit this out," Zenger suggested.

"No."

"We trust you, Connor, but if Haytham were to catch wind of this… It would be a disaster. We might have another slaughter on our hands."

"What, do you think I'm going to run back to his house and tell him  _everything_? You say you trust me, but-"

"Connor." Achilles's tone was gentle, but firm. Strict. "I agree with Zenger. You will still have your chance to confront Charles Lee and make him pay for what he's done, but until your father is taken care of, I can't let you leave this place."

Something inside of me cracked and shattered. An old rage was bubbling up, one I'd tried to stifle for so long. It threatened to pour over, to devour me again in the same way it had when I was younger, when I'd just lost my mother, when all I could think about was finding Charles Lee and-

"Connor," Clipper said, reaching out to touch my shoulder, but he stopped.

Someone upstairs was screaming.

I was the first to move. I pushed past the others and barreled up the stairs, threw the door open, pounded down the hallway and broke out into the living room. There was no blood, no bodies – none yet, at least. The older woman I'd met before was cowering behind a chair.

"What happened?" I demanded, sounding angrier than I'd intended. The woman flinched, but she pointed to the front door – wide open, letting in cool gusts of night air.

"There was someone, one of the Templars, I recognized him-"

I left before she could finish. I heard the others behind me, yelling, calling for me to come back, but I ignored them.

Did Haytham follow me here? Or have me followed by one of his underlings? If they escaped back to Abstergo with the location of this farmhouse…

A shape – too short to be my father, too lithe and slim – was running away from the house, back in the direction of the woods. I went after him, kicking up plumes of dirt and dust with my shoes, my hood flying off my head. I knew the others were behind me, but I could hear nothing aside from the beat of my own heart, the rush of blood in my ears.

A name came to me then: Thomas Hickey. It had to be him. It was his fault that Dobby was taken, and now he was going to report the rest of my Assassin brothers. My rage gave me strength, and I pushed myself harder.

He was so fast, though; faster than anyone I'd ever chased before, even when Achilles had the other Assassins lead me through the back streets of the city. Hickey wove between the trees, jumped nimbly over the upturned rocks and roots. But I'd grown up on the fringes of a forest, had spent so many years of my life chasing my friends between trees and boulders; this place was almost familiar to me, like an extension of myself I'd forgotten I had. The undergrowth only caught me a few times, but never enough to really slow me down.

Hickey came closer. He was breathing hard; I could hear it even above my own harsh exhales. He was older than me and tiring quickly. I took advantage of it and engaged the hidden blade at my wrist just before I flung myself through the air and caught him square on the shoulders.

He squirmed away and the blade sank into his arm instead of his heart. Hickey still hissed when he hit the ground, and a warm burst of blood hit my fingers.

"Ye little- ahh,  _shit_ ," He pushed and pulled, but I put my full weight on his back and pressed the blade deeper.

The woods went silent around us, save for the wild thrash of his arms against the dead leaves beneath us. Where were the others? Were we  _that_ far from the farmhouse?

Still. It didn't matter. It wouldn't take much to drag him back. Killing him now – here, without taking the opportunity to draw information from him – would be a waste.

I was thinking this as I pulled him to his feet. Hickey spat at my face and I gave him another hard shove that sent him sprawling to the ground.

"Ye little  _cocksucking_ -"

A branch cracked somewhere in the distance. The others finally caught up to us. I grabbed Hickey by the elbow and drew him back up, where he stood spitting dirt and grass and curses in my direction.

The footsteps came closer – leisurely, almost. There were flashlights too, bobbing through the darkness.

It was around that point that I realized something was wrong. The others would've been running after us, wouldn't have had a chance to stop for flashlights. And there were too many, more than Zenger, Clipper, and Stephane.

Hickey started chuckling. "Startin' to get it now, mate?" he asked, brushing another dried leaf from his front.

I started to turn back the other way, toward the house, but the flashlights were coming from that direction too.

They were here.

They found us.

I was surrounded by Templars, and somehow I doubted they would believe that Hickey and I were out for a midnight walk.


	22. The Bunker

 

I should have known something was wrong from the moment I woke up. I  _should_ have, but I dismissed the nagging I felt when I went downstairs for breakfast and didn't see Connor, who - much like myself - was an early riser out of habit rather than obligation. At the time I figured he must have stayed up late for some homework assignment or another, and I neglected to check his room to see if everything was all right.

I flicked my cell open while I waited for my tea water to boil and was surprised to find that not only had Charles called me in the early hours of the morning, but Johnson and Reginald had as well. I put the phone to my ear and listened to the several voice messages they'd left.

And what I heard made my blood run cold.

I gathered my things and left for work half an hour earlier than usual, just barely remembering to turn the stove off before I was gone.

The entire building was bustling with activity when I arrived. I ignored almost everyone in my haste, all but running to the Animus department.

Johnson was hovering by the elevators. "Thank God I found you first," he whispered to me as I stepped into the hall. "I'm guessing you got my message?"

"Yours and several others. When did this happen?  _How_  did it happen?"

"Hickey followed him last night and stumbled upon an Assassin safe house. Naturally, he called the department."

I swore loudly enough that the scientists working on the main floor looked up from their clipboards.

"He didn't think to call  _me_?" I demanded, hands curling into white-knuckled fists.

"It would seem that Mr. Birch spoke with him earlier. He asked Thomas to report to him if he found anything."

"Does Reginald know I asked Hickey to-"

"Yes."

"Did you-"

Johnson stopped me in the middle of the floor. "No," he promised. "You asked me not to share that with anyone, and I didn't. I wouldn't betray your trust like that, Haytham."

"I know. Thank you for everything you've done so far," I said after a moment's hesitation. I put a reassuring hand on my old friend's shoulder and hoped he couldn't feel my shaking.

He nodded. "I assume you'd like to see where he's being kept now."

"Yes. Please."

Johnson beckoned for me to follow him.

"He's being watched constantly, so be careful what you say or do," he warned. "Mr. Birch is personally keeping an eye on him. I'm sure he's waiting to see how you react."

"Of course," I muttered. "Does anyone else know that Connor is my…?"

"I don't know, sir."

I nodded stiffly.

Johnson led me through a series of increasingly dark corridors, down to the depths of the Abstergo building. These were the "bunkers", as the employees had decided to call them, where Assassins and other…guests were sometimes kept. The cells were relatively nice, furnished with clean beds, desks, private bathrooms, and televisions - though it would be worth mentioning that the televisions were strictly for our use only, so that we could communicate with the inmates or send them information.

The bunker room was arranged in a circle. Several of the other cells were occupied - I could see the inhabitants inside, and most were sleeping or staring listlessly at the walls - but Johnson led me straight to Connor's. I was irritated when I saw that Charles was already there, hands clasped behind his back; but at least he wasn't Reginald, I suppose.

Connor was seated on the mattress, hands folded in his lap, brow furrowed in thought. He wasn't facing the door, so I activated the microphone nearby.

"Connor?" I said. His head shot up, first to the speakers on the walls, and then to me.

"Haytham," he breathed. His face twisted with emotion, but only for the briefest of moments before he pulled himself together and went stoic.

"Are you all right?" I asked him when he said no more. "What happened?"

"I'm fine, considering." He motioned to his surroundings, fixing the Abstergo logo on his wall with a look of disdain. "And as for what happened… Maybe you should ask them."

He nodded to both Johnson and Charles. Johnson had the good grace to keep his expression in check, but Charles's fixed into an angry sneer.

"They found him at an Assassin safe house. Did you know your son kept company with those rogues?" Charles asked me.

"Was he actually  _in_ the safe house, or-"

"Oh, he was. And the boy was given a ride there by a fellow Assassin."

I was at a loss for words. I turned back to Connor, mouth open, but there was nothing more I could say or do while we were being watched by so many Templars.

Still, the look my son gave me - one of pure contempt, of unbridled anger - shook me to the core. I saw parts of Ziio in him then...and some of my father as well.

"I'm sorry," I mouthed, but he'd already focused his attention back on his folded hands.

"Haytham!"

I turned at the sound of Reginald's voice, dread filling me in a flood. Johnson and Charles stepped respectfully away as the Grand Master entered the bunker room, his smile somehow equal parts gentle and smug.

"I see you've already been told about our little...situation here," he said, coming to stand beside me. "I can't tell you how surprised I was to see your own son here in the bunkers. And the news that he was captured at an Assassin safe house?"

He looked to me, gauging my reaction. I kept my face a blank mask.

"It surprised me to hear it as well," I said evenly. "But what evidence is there that he's an Assassin? What if this was just a case of him being in the wrong place at the wrong time?"

Reginald was shaking his head before I even finished my sentence. "There's little doubt at all, I'm afraid," he said. "He was seen not only entering the safe house with an Assassin, but leaving it as well to run after our man Thomas Hickey. Nearly killed him in the process, actually. Did you know they found an Assassin's blade on his person?"

My stomach went cold, but I kept my tone neutral. "Oh?"

Reginald nodded. "The safe house was out near the mountains as well. Almost completely isolated. There's no other reason he might have been there."

"Ah. I see."

I wished that Connor would have looked at me then, so he could see my disappointment. How could he do something so  _stupid_? He must have known that Hickey was following him in the days before; so what made him think that a jaunt to an Assassin safe house would be a good idea? I wanted to grab his shoulders, to shake him until he saw sense.

It was too late for that now, unfortunately.

"Did you capture any of the other Assassins at this safe house?" I asked Reginald.

"No. The house was searched, but everyone was gone. Even the owners - though we have the names of their family now, so they can be tracked down eventually."

So Connor's comrades had left him to the Templar dogs. How interesting. I knew my son could hear us through the door - muffled, but clear enough - but he never looked at us, never betrayed his emotions.

Reginald's voice was deathly quiet when he spoke. "What do you think should be done, Haytham?"

"What do you mean, sir?"

"Your son has been found in the company of Assassins. But there is still hope."

Hope, indeed. I'd seen Reginald Birch's brand of hope in the years I'd known him - "mercy" was a better word for it, and even that barely qualified.

Still, it was better than nothing.

"What do you mean?" I asked him.

"Well, this is  _your_ son - the son of a Templar Grand Master - we're talking about. Perhaps we can work out an arrangement with him."

"Meaning?"

"Have him spend some time in the Animus. See what we can learn. And question him about the whereabouts of his Assassin brothers. If you can agree to these terms, then perhaps he can be let go - after the rest of the Brotherhood has been taken in, of course."

"He's an adult, Reginald. I can make no decisions for him."

Reginald's grin was colder than ice. "Of course. I was just seeing what you might think of this plan."

I looked back to Connor, who was resolutely ignoring us. I was still against him being in the Animus, but now only for my own reasons; there was nothing more for him to hide from my own Templar brothers now. If he could agree to these terms and be pardoned…

"I will speak with him," I said.

"Of course. I'll give you privacy - or as much as he can be afforded right now."

Reginald left, and when I turned, I saw that both Johnson and Charles were gone as well. Johnson knew when to keep his distance, but I had a feeling that Charles would be waiting for me in my office.

I pressed the microphone by the door. "I'm sure you heard what Reginald had to say," I told him.

Connor gave a dry laugh. "Some time in the Animus and an interrogation for what? More time being locked up?"

"It's a good deal, Connor. I would think seriously about it. The alternative is…" I trailed off. I was sure he knew what the Templars did; he'd no doubt heard the stories from his brothers.

"I can't betray them. I  _won't._ Surely you can understand that."

"Son-"

He spun around then, an angry finger jabbed in my direction. " _Don't_. Don't call me that."

I felt my own expression harden. "You're making a foolish decision. Assassins are so rarely offered a pardon like this-"

"A  _pardon_? Is that what you're calling it? I'd be giving up my brothers in exchange for what? Rotting here in this cell until the day I die, or the day the Templars decide I'm worth nothing more to them. They would never let me walk free," he spat. "And even if they did? It wouldn't be freedom. I would be watched, constantly, like Achilles was after you  _murdered_ the rest of the Brotherhood."

I said nothing. What  _could_  I say, really? Every word he spoke was the truth, and we both knew it.

"Think about it," I told him, but he shook his head.

"I already have. And my answer is no."

There was nothing more I could do. I stepped away from his cell and left the bunkers with the hope that Reginald or Johnson might speak with me before they did anything more with my son.

My son. My hardheaded, stubborn son. He was going to get himself killed if he wasn't careful.

It was fortunate that I didn't run into any of the other Templars while I stalked back to my office. I was hardly in the mood to talk, and by now I was sure most of them knew about Connor's imprisonment and my relation to him. I was too angry then - at Reginald, at Charles, at Connor, at  _myself_ for not being able to protect him any better - to speak or think clearly.

One of the secretaries was waiting for me when I passed by her desk.

"Sir. Mr. Kenway?" she said when I didn't stop. "There was someone waiting to speak to you. I sent him to your office."

It was all I could do not to release a stream of curses right then and there. "Thank you," I managed instead.

Wonderful. Who would want to meet with me this early in the morning? I made my way to the office, trying as best as I could to calm myself down. Connor's imprisonment or not, I had to be presentable for my clients.

I opened the door and found myself face-to-face with a vaguely familiar man. He was leaning against the chair reserved for my guests and clients, with one hand in his pocket and the other hanging at his side.

"Haytham Kenway? I've already searched, but we are being recorded? Trust me when I say it would be in your best interest to make sure we aren't," he said, and his French-Canadian accent immediately gave him away.

"We're not." I closed the door behind me. "And you came to my door a few weeks ago. After Zenger escaped."

The man nodded once. "I've come with a message. And if you are smart, you won't tell your Templar friends that I've been here until I'm long gone."

I engaged the hidden blade at my wrist, glad then that I'd grown into the habit of strapping it on every morning.

"And why would I do that?" I asked him, taking the slightest step forward.

"Because Achilles has a proposition for you."

I hesitated. "Achilles has a proposition for  _me_?"

"I told him it was a stupid idea too, but he insisted," the man said, sighing. "Before he was taken, Connor insisted that you were not the man we assumed you to be. He told us that you knew he was an Assassin and you still didn't turn him in."

I remained silent, though I was curious now. Connor championed me to Achilles and the others? I hadn't expected something like that after seeing how he spoke to me in the bunkers.

"Achilles wondered if it might be...possible to work something out. To help Connor," the man said.

I didn't have to be psychic to see how the Assassin felt about this; he was clearly against the notion of Achilles working with a Templar Grand Master. Achilles knew me, knew how I worked and how I thought - was Connor's argument so persuasive that he was willing to forget that?

"Tell him to contact me personally if he wants to talk about this," I said. "And there is little I can do, besides. Connor may be my son, but I am a Grand Master. Certain things are expected of me."

The Assassin didn't bother to hide his disgust now. "Of course, Haytham Kenway would think only of himself in a time like this," he said. "Your own son might be killed and you're willing to stand aside to keep your position safe."

I took another step closer, hidden blade brandished, my voice just barely over a hiss when

I spoke. "Don't talk like you know who I am or what I stand for."

We stood like that for a moment, at a standstill, hidden blades engaged and prepared to spill blood. I waited for him to make the first move, but the Assassin eventually relaxed his posture and moved toward the door.

"I'll pass your message along," he said, "but remember what I told you. Don't go crying for your Templars until I've gone."

"Fine," I said - though I kept my hidden blade at the ready as he moved, prepared to strike if he tried anything foolish.

He watched me as he opened the door. "It's strange," he murmured. "I was willing to trust Connor's judgment, but I don't know what he sees in you."

"And I don't know what he sees in your creed."

The man scoffed - and then he was gone. I disengaged my blade and let my arms hang at my sides.

The morning had barely begun and I was already spent, both physically and emotionally.

 


	23. The Beginning of the End

I didn't sleep much while I was in that cell. But I guess I dozed off at some point, because one moment I was watching one of the scientists pace around the room outside – and the next, someone completely different was opening my door.

"Good evening, Mr. Kenway," the man – I recognized him now from Achilles's photograph collection as Reginald Birch – said. He walked into the cell with his hands clasped behind his back, perfectly calm. "I trust you've slept well and been provided for since you arrived here?"

"I don't go by that name," I all but spat.

Birch was unfazed. "You don't use your father's surname? Ah, I suppose that makes sense. May I call you Connor, then?"

I sat up on the mattress and turned away from him. The Templar made a soft tutting sound, like he was speaking to a temperamental child.

"You've heard of the Animus units, haven't you?" he asked me. "I suppose your father has probably mentioned them before. Has he asked you to step into one yet?"

I kept ignoring him, but he plowed right on ahead with his speech. Might as well let him get it out of his system, I supposed. I had all the time in the world to listen.

"These machines allow us to access the memories in an individual's DNA. These might be their own memories, or those of their ancestors. It's incredibly fascinating, actually. I'm surprised Haytham didn't have you go through the program."

"I didn't want to."

"Really? You're not interested in seeing what stories might be tucked away in your DNA?"

"Not particularly."

"Mm." Birch hummed under his breath. "Well, regardless, you'll have a chance to see the inside of an Animus today. And you may go willingly, or I can have the guards escort you there. Whichever you prefer."

The look I gave him made him turn to the men waiting outside the cell. He nodded, and they came forward to take me by the elbows.

"I'm afraid it must be this way only because you insist on it, Connor," Birch said as we left the cells. "You might find that I can be quite a civil man. Unlike your Assassin brothers have probably told you."

I tried not to roll my eyes. What a piece of work.

The guards and Birch didn't take me to the hall filled with Animus units – the same one I'd seen the day I came with Haytham so long ago – like I expected; instead they brought me to a spacious room with high ceilings and windows so tall and wide that the walls were virtually nonexistent. It was so light and airy – so different than what I'd experienced the last few days.

I took a look around while Birch spoke with several of the scientists off in the corner. There was no sign of Haytham; not yet, at least, and I was hoping he wouldn't show up. He came back to my cell several times after our first encounter, but I refused to speak to him, refused to so much as look him in the eye.

I'd come to realize that I could trust no one here. Not even my father. He was one of them – and he always would be, deep down.

"Is the Animus ready?" someone asked. I didn't recognize his voice, but I recognized his face from Achilles's collection: this was Church, who was (according to our intel) a very smart man, but one of the least trusted members of the Templar inner circle. Charles Lee was standing beside him, and even from the other side of the room I thought I could see the disgust in his eyes.

"It is," Lee told him. He looked up to me then and flicked his chin in my direction. "Is the boy?"

Rage flew through me, hot and heavy. I jerked hard and managed to break from the guards' hold.

Everything slowed down. I assessed my options; with so few furnishings in the room – a desk, a sofa, several chairs, and the Animus itself - there was nowhere for me to climb, nothing to jump from, nothing to throw or duck behind if they shot at me. On the other hand, this meant there were few obstacles between myself and the Templar leaders.

I didn't have my hidden blade, but I wouldn't need it. I imagined myself wrapping my hands around Charles Lee's neck and squeezing, squeezing until I tore the air from his chest, squeezing until the vessels in his eyes burst and all he could see was red.

I threw myself in his direction. Church was slow to react – the rumor amongst my Assassin brothers was that he was never really trained for combat – but Charles Lee was sharper. His hands curled into fists and he took a defensive stance while his companion ducked behind the Animus machinery.

I was barely aware of my surroundings; of my shoes hitting the smooth tile, of the shouts of the scientists, of the too-bright sun slanting through the too-big windows. All I could see was Charles Lee, my prey, my-

Several sets of hands wrapped around my arms. They pulled me back so hard that I nearly fell over.

"Now, now, we can't have that," Birch said. He stepped in front of me – and suddenly everything came back into focus. I remembered where I was and why I was there.

I strained against those guards again, but this time they were better prepared. They hauled me over to the Animus, set me down, and started tying the restraints around my arms, legs, and torso.

Charles Lee watched me from the Animus's console, his expression somewhere between a smirk and a grimace.

"It's over, boy," he said. "Your time with those miscreants has come to an end. Remember, if you behave, you might be spared from the same fate as your brothers and sisters."

My voice came out as a snarl. "Have you already forgotten me?"

Lee tilted his head to the side. He took a few steps closer to the Animus and leaned against it – close enough that I could have reached out and choked him, if only my hands were free.

"I have absolutely  _no_  idea what you're talking about," he said, his voice just barely above a whisper. His breath – I wish I could have described it as sour, as downright evil, but it was surprisingly minty – washed across my face as he spoke.

"You remember the reservation," I said. "The fire."

His smile stayed, but something in his eyes changed.

He  _did_ remember.

And, unfortunately, so did I: how could I forget the sight of the only home I'd known burning down? The stench of my own mother's flesh as the flames took her away from me?

But above all I could remember Charles Lee in the hours before; I could remember him standing over me, his hands around my neck, squeezing until the sky was spinning and-

Lee suddenly pulled away. His grin faltered, and he returned to Church's side.

I let my muscles relax. My entire body was so tense that it hurt.

"How far back should we go?" Church asked no one in particular.

"A few months. I want to see the other members of this little brotherhood of theirs," Lee answered him.

I tensed again. A clear visor slid out from the Animus and over my eyes. Blood pounded like thunder in my ears, so loud that I could barely hear Church and Lee issuing commands to the scientists and guards around me.

I was just starting to wonder how and when the machine would work when the room went dark. My stomach jumped up in my throat, and I had a sensation of falling – and then it stopped just as suddenly as it started.

My vision returned, but everything was blurry and out of focus. I thought I was in Achilles's house again – that much was familiar – but the people around me were…jumbled. I could hear their voices but not their words. It was like watching a broken television.

It was nauseating. Was this why Haytham wanted to keep me out of the Animus? How did people manage sit through this for hours on end?

"He's rejecting it," someone – it sounded like Church, but so far away – said.

Lee (I think) replied: "Recalibrate it."

"While he's still in the machine? That might-"

"Just do it!"

The image jumped further out of focus. It felt like someone was pushing a drill through my brain. I tried to reach up, to grab my head, but my hands were still tied down to the Animus.

"It's not working."

"Keep trying."

"Charles, you idiot, if I keep doing this, he'll die!"

"His father survived!"

"Haytham had training beforehand!"

"I don't care, just keep trying!"

The drill dug deeper. My skull was about to split open. I clenched my eyes shut, but even that didn't block out the jumping, spinning images that the Animus was feeding me.

Was I going to die here? At the hands of Charles Lee? How could I be so careless?

Someone put a hand on my elbow. I tried to twist away from it, but it was no use – whoever it was clamped their fingers down. Hard.

"The Brotherhood will never abandon you," a voice – a wonderfully familiar one – said in my ear.

And then someone in that room started to scream.


	24. I Will Not Weep and Wonder

An unexpected spring snow began to fall that afternoon. I watched it from the window of my office, my chin balanced on the palm of my hand. It brought back a memory of the time Ziio and I were caught outside on day not unlike this one: we were picnicking in Central Park when the snow started to fall – slowly at first, and then with increasing ferocity. I wanted to go back to the car, but she insisted that we stay and keep eating.

"It will make for a good story later," she promised, even as our sandwiches grew soggy and our once-warm drinks turned cold and watery. It wound up being one of the most memorable meals of my life, though I have to admit that it is not something I would want to try again.

That picnic took place a mere few weeks before we split up… She must have been pregnant with Connor by then. If I'd known, I never would have let her stay out in that cold.

This was probably a reason why she never told me about her pregnancy in the first place. I would have stifled her.

I stared out the window for a while longer before someone threw my door open. I turned to shout at the intruder for failing to knock – and stopped when I saw Johnson standing there, breathless, with Hickey at his side.

I stood immediately, expecting the absolute worst. Johnson wasn't on the team assigned to work with Connor, but he'd promised to keep me abreast of the situation.

"What happened?" I asked.

"There's been a problem," Johnson said.

I was stepping out into the hallway before he finished his sentence. Hickey trailed behind us, with an uncomfortably smug expression on his face.

"They brought Connor to the Animus-"

"They  _what_? Charles told me they wouldn't start that for another day or so-"

"'t was prob'ly Church's idea," Hickey drawled. "He's been whinin' about it for a while."

Goddamned  _Church_. Of course.

"And apparently Mr. Birch was pushing for an earlier screening as well," Johnson added. "Though it's only a rumor I heard."

"And no doubt it's true," I said. Birch was pressing all of my buttons lately, even before Connor was taken in; he came to talk with me often, always asking what I planned to do now that my son was in Templar custody. Would I work for his freedom? Would I keep trying to convert him? Birch was desperate to know, for whatever reason.

"So he's in the Animus right now?" I asked.

Johnson nodded. "He should be. Though I don't know how long ago this happened - Hickey only just got the information to me."

I glanced back at the man over my shoulder. He was still grinning; it made my skin crawl.

He knew something more about this. I was tempted to wrestle the information from him, but-

We turned the corner to the private rooms and found ourselves face-to-face with a world of chaos. I stumbled to the side just before a small group of scientists and technicians came barreling past me.

There was blood on their coats.

Johnson murmured fearfully from somewhere beside me. "What in God's name..."

I looked to Hickey again, but he was gone. Already in the midst of this disaster - whatever it was - no doubt. I left Johnson's side and moved further down the hall, following the streams of guards and other Abstergo workers to the source of the mess.

We usually reserved the private hall for Assassins, or other... _guests_ of ours who weren't in the building willingly. They were lovely rooms - high ceilings, plenty of light, massive windows with an impressive view of the city.

The room I'd just entered was a far cry from that: the furniture was in complete disarray, and the floor was spattered with bright splotches of blood. I pushed several of the guards aside and made my way to the Animus unit - which, I noticed with a chill, was empty.

"What happened here?" I asked no one in particular.

"Your  _son_ and his brothers happened."

I turned to face Charles. His cheek was cut, and blood was streaming from his hairline. One eye was closed, but the other was wide and livid with anger.

I composed myself quickly. "The Assassins broke him out? How?"

This time it was Birch who answered me. "They managed to infiltrate the building. Quite a few of them wormed their way in with the guards. Disguised themselves. And killed Church."

I turned again, and this time I saw the lifeless form lying beside the Animus unit. He was covered by a blanket now, but I recognized Church by his stature.

He was dead now. Killed by the Assassins. Gone forever.

A flurry of different emotions hit me all at once - anger, confusion, and...relief? Why? Was it because of Connor's escape? The fact that he wouldn't be forced through the Animus? That he wouldn't be killed because of his memories?

A fate worse than that awaited him now if my co-workers managed to catch him again. My relief vanished just as quickly as it had come.

Charles spoke again. "Did you know this would happen?" he asked me. His gaze was accusatory now - and that only made me angrier.

"You don't trust me? After everything we've been through?" I asked him, taking a step forward. Charles held his ground, though, and clenched his fists at his sides.

"You knew he was an Assassin - your own  _son_ is an Assassin - and yet you chose to hide that information from us. Can you really blame me for doubting you?"

"I was in the process of showing him our ways. I could have converted him."

"Assassins don't convert so easily."

"I-"

"That's enough," Birch said. "What's done is done. What we need to focus on now is catching these Assassins before they manage to escape the building. I've sent security after them, but I doubt they'll do much good now. I don't know which of them I can trust anymore."

"Hickey's gone after them," Johnson said. He was bent over Church's body, lifting the blanket to examine the wounds in his chest. They were made by a hidden blade; this I knew just by looking at them.

"I can go looking for them as well, sir," Charles said to Birch.

Birch nodded. "Very well. Do what you must. None of them necessarily need to be brought back alive."

The cold chill settled back in my stomach as I watched Charles stalk from the room. He wouldn't hesitate to kill the Assassins, I knew that; because I'd trained him myself. I'd trained him to work emotionlessly and without remorse, because the Assassins deserved no more than that.

"Haytham?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I would like for you to return to your office."

I rounded on Birch. "Why? I'm perfectly capable of hunting down the Assassins myself. You know that. I was in charge of the purge, I-"

"Charles brought up a good point. You say you were planning on converting your son, but you didn't tell any of us. Didn't ask any of us for help. Why was that, Haytham?"

"He's my son. I could handle him myself."

"Could you? I think what happened here today proves you did absolutely nothing to change the boy's mind."

"You know how stubborn the Assassins can be. Especially a young man of his age-"

"Enough with the excuses, Haytham."

The barely bridled rage in Birch's voice brought me pause. I floundered for a moment, speechless, and he took advantage of it.

"You were trying to protect him. That, I suppose I could understand. He is your child, after all - even if you  _just barely_ met him, I guess there might be some sort of paternal love there. Though I wouldn't know," he said with a shrug. "But what I don't understand is this: You chose to give up a family life to further the Templar cause. Why pursue it now? What's changed in you?"

"Nothing has changed," I said, choosing my words as carefully as possible. I knew too well that one slip could send Birch into a fit of anger that might cost me everything. "Connor is a grown man now. He wanted to get to know me, and I...wanted to know him as well. He's not a child anymore, Birch. He doesn't need to be coddled and cared for."

"You should have told me about him. Or you should have told Charles. We could have helped."

"I wanted to handle it alone. I didn't want to overwhelm him with information and people."

"A poor choice on your part."

I bit back an angry response.

"No, no... Something's changed in you, Haytham. Something's made you softer. I don't know if it's your newfound fatherhood, or perhaps something else, but-"

"Nothing has changed. I'm still loyal to the Order. I will do my utmost to-"

"Would you kill Connor if you ran into him?"

"I... I would do what I must."

Birch snorted. "Your hesitation tells me otherwise."

"Sir-"

"Would you like me to have you escorted? I could do that, easily."

"No."

"Then please return to your office. We're in the middle of a crisis and I don't need you distracting me until it's dealt with."

I left the room, but not without murmuring a few choice curses under my breath. Going against Birch would do nothing to help me now; he, like Charles, was beginning to question my loyalty. I was out of the fold now...at least until Connor and his friends were taken care of.

But I was trying not to think about that.

_Had_ something changed in me? I wondered as I made my way back to the office. Aside from my spats with Charles and Birch, I didn't think so.

The fact that I chose to keep Connor's allegiances was more than enough to make them question me. That, I suppose I could understand.

But still. I was a Grand Master, and-

"Haytham! Sir, wait."

Johnson again. Why wasn't he with the others? Surely Birch would have them all on the Assassins' trail.

"What is it?" I asked him, fighting to keep my voice level.

"You left."

"I'm going back to my office. I have things to do."

"You're...not going after the Assassins yourself?"

"No. I have no reason to," I said, giving my old friend a dry smile. "And I think it would be best not to test Reginald right now."

"Ah. Yes." Johnson nodded slowly. "Still, sir... If I may be so bold, I did not expect you to give in so easily."

My grin melted away, and my voice took a strange edge. "What do you mean by that?"

"If you find Connor, you might still have a chance to speak with him."

"You were there when I spoke with Birch. They'll capture or kill him no matter what I do or say."

"You don't want him to die. Even if he is an Assassin."

I hesitated. Words failed me - a rare occurrence, though it still happened nonetheless. I swallowed, but nothing came to me.

I thought of Connor, and - like always - my thoughts wandered to Ziio. What would life have been like if we stayed together? If I chose family over the Order and raised my son like a proper father? Would I still be a Templar? Would he be an Assassin? Would I have raised him one way or the other, as my own father had? Or would I have lived a completely normal life, detached from the Order, working an office job to support my love and my son?

I would never know. There was no point in dwelling on what could have been. I didn't have time to weep and wonder.

Ziio was gone. Nothing could change that.

But Connor - my son, my blood - was still here.

Maybe there was something -  _anything_ \- I could still do.

If I chose to turn away now - to return to my office, to willingly ignore what was going on - then I might dwell on that as well for the rest of my life. How different might things be if I went looking for Connor? If I had one last chance to speak with him?

I sighed quietly and put a hand to my forehead.

"Let's go," I said, pushing my way past Johnson before I could see the look on his face.

"Well said, Haytham."


	25. Shatter

A cluster of security guards met us in every hall. This was the sort of fighting that Achilles had trained me for — large groups, men and women waiting for any chance to surround and kill you. I fought them eagerly enough in the beginning — I’d waited for this moment for so long, after so many years of training — but I never realized how easy it was to lose track of your opponents in such a chaotic, violent situation.

Duncan shot at one of the guards before he could bash my head in with the heavy nightstick he carried.

“Watch yourself,” my Assassin brother warned. “We’re all tired, but you can’t stop for a minute.”

“I know,” I said, and carried on following them through the stark Abstergo corridors.

The escape actually started off well enough, if you could believe it. One minute I was lying on an Animus machine with a visor clamped over my eyes – and the next Stephane himself was helping me to my feet while he brushed the Templar blood from his knuckles.

“You came,” I said, surprise coloring my tone. “How?”

“We’ll discuss it later. For now, fight! And don’t let any of them sound the alarm.”

Stephane threw me a hidden blade – not my own, of course, the Templars had taken that away as soon as they could – and I strapped it on. Duncan and Jaime were already tussling with Lee and Church, which left Stephane and myself to fend off the remaining guards.

 It proved easy enough; these men were used to handling a mere few Assassins at a time, and not in such closed quarters. One raised a gun, but I found myself shoving the point of my blade though his neck before he could pull the trigger.

That was my first kill, actually. A man whose name I would never know. I watched him crumple to the floor before I moved onto the next, who drew his nightstick and lifted it over his head. I dodged quickly and slit his throat.

Footsteps – heavy, uneven – came rushing at me from behind. I spun around and threw up my blade-arm.

And just in time, too, because it was Church himself who very nearly stabbed me in the stomach.

“You have no chance, boy,” he said – but his eyes were wild, and sweat was beading along the sides of his face.

His fear gave me the strength I needed. I took a careful step away from him, and we circled each other for a moment.

“Did you ever learn to fight, Church?” I asked him with a sneer. It felt so _good,_ being in control over him like this. After so many days of being forced to let him stare at me from behind the safety of bulletproof glass, after so many days of being his quiet specimen…

Church’s mouth twisted. “Have you lost your mind? You’re in the middle of Abstergo! You will die here. You and all of your Assassin _brothers_.”

“Not without taking you first.”

Church took the bait. He lunged, a guttural snarl tearing past his lips. But he moved so slowly, so awkwardly, that it was easy for me to simply grab hold of him when he came near. The man thrashed, angry as a bull and just as powerful – I found my feet slipping out beneath me, felt the muscle in my arms straining – but I stabbed upward with my hidden blade and caught him in the chest – once, twice, three times before he gargled and slipped from my grasp.

He stepped back and pressed a hand to the wounds on his chest. There were three bright and beautifully red stains across his white shirt. I kept my arm taut, blade at the ready if he decided to strike again – but the man looked up at me with strange expression, with eyes wide and his mouth slack.

“You’re just like him,” Church said, pressing a hand back to his wounds. His voice was choked, like he was drowning. “Just as ruthless.”

He dropped to the ground, knees first, before I could question him. I didn’t have time anyway – the others were still busy with Lee and one last guard, and I still had Birch to contend with. I couldn’t believe he left me alone for as long as he did. I started to move past Church, but something stopped me, if only for a moment. I thought back to all of the times I had seen his picture in Achilles’s collection; all the times I stared at his face, wondering when I would have a chance to go against him myself, when I could take him and this branch of the Templar Order out.

I finally had my chance, and I felt nothing like I thought I would.

“Connor!”

I looked up. Stephane was waving to me. The others were beside him, bloodied and battered, but smiling.

“Where is Lee? And Birch?” I asked him. “Are they dead?”

“Birch made a run for it as soon as the fighting started. We tried to stop him, but…” Duncan trailed off with a curse. “Bastard. Coward.”

  “And Lee?”

 “I gave him some wounds to think about before he made his exit,” Jaime said. “I’m sorry, Connor. He was-“

Stephane interrupted them. “We have no time. We have to move. Dobby’s waiting for us with Clipper.”

“Dobby? Did you-“

“A while ago, before we came for you. Come on! We have to go!”

I trailed after them, breathing hard and fast. Church’s blood was growing thick and sticky on my hands, my arms.

My first real Templar kill. I’d waited and trained so much for this day – and yet it felt nothing like I expected it would. There was some satisfaction, yes; but none of the joy or pride I once fantasized so much about.

I brushed the feeling away. There was no point in dwelling on it now. Not while we were being chased and hunted through Abstergo Industries like trapped rats.

A multitude of employees stood in our way — the scientists and technicians were the easiest to deal with, since most of them backed out of the hall and ran when they saw us coming. The security guards were — of course, because they were being paid to do it — far more prone to stop and fight back, nightsticks and guns at the ready. Jaime picked off the gun-ready guards with one of his own — he was a far better shot than he’d ever let on, though Clipper still had him beat — while Stephane and I took down the rest.

It was hard going. We had to stop more often than any of us anticipated, and even though Duncan had taken it upon himself to study the building’s layout, we still found ourselves getting lost on more than one occasion.

"We should have taken the elevator back there," Stephane said when we found ourselves at our third dead end in the last fifteen minutes. "We are trying to go _down_ , not up!”

"The one back there was supposed to take us to the fifth floor."

"We should have broken Connor out while he was still in the bunkers. We know how to get back up to the first floor from there."

"Well, Stephane, if _you’d_ taken the time to organize all of this-“

"Come now, lads. There’s no time for arguing. We have to go before Birch organizes the rest of his Templars," Jaime said, stepping between Duncan and Stephane before the two could go at it. Stephane’s hands and jaw were clenched, his cheeks blotched red.

"Back to the elevators, then," Duncan said, seething.

"Perhaps we should go down the stairs instead," I suggested.

Duncan turned to give me a look, but he didn’t stop walking. 

"They’ll overwhelm and trap us from both ends."

"They could do the same on the elevators. And I’m sure they have cameras set up in the shafts. They’ll see exactly where we’re going."

Stephane threw back his head and let out a rough, tired laugh. “Oh, Connor, they have cameras _everywhere._ I’m sure even your father is watching us as we speak.”

I glanced up at the ceilings as we passed. Was he? Was Haytham watching us as we ran through the halls of his Templar stronghold, taking down his security and bloodying his halls?

Or maybe he was in one of the corridors ahead, waiting for us, his own weapons at the ready.

We kept running. There wasn’t time for me to brood — not while we were being attacked at nearly every turn. I killed and disabled many other men and women that afternoon, taking them out with a well-placed stab or slash of my hidden blade. I longed for the one Achilles had given me; the antique, with its weathered, firm leather and strong blade. The one my brothers had brought me was a newer model, but it didn’t engage as smoothly, didn’t feel as familiar on my arm.

But it suited me well enough, I thought, as I drew the blade across another man’s throat. He toppled over, blood streaming with each final pump of his heart.         

I stood back, taking a long breath. And I was reaching up to wipe the sweat from my brow when I heard Dobby’s voice.

"Connor! You’re all right!"

I looked up, and there she was, running down the hall toward us with Clipper in tow. They were smiling, despite the fact that they were completely flecked with blood and looked just as bone-weary as we were.

"A success so far, hm?" she asked, head tilted to the side. "You all right, Connor? This is your first time in a real fight, isn’t it?"

"Sort of," I told her.

She reached out to touch my arm. Her tone was quieter when she spoke again, her gaze softer. “But you’re all right, aren’t you?”

"Yes. I’m fine."

"You’ve got a spot of blood on your forehead, by the way."

I went to rub it away and noticed that my hands were splotched with blood. Someone else’s.  I let my hands fall back to my sides.

Dobby gave me a tired grin, but squeezed my arm before she pulled away.

"Good. We have to keep moving. Clipper and I took out a good few of the bastards, but they’ll be sending more our way, and we’ve already lost a few good men ourselves. Come on. We’ve still got a ways to go," she said to the others.

Clipper made a tch-ing sound. “How big is this goddamned place?”

"Count yourself lucky that you haven’t been working your way down from the Animus floor," Duncan said, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Ah, well… I guess that’s true."

 Duncan and Stephane took the lead again; still bickering occasionally, but — finally — not enough to slow us down. Clipper took up the rear with Jaime, and I kept to the middle of the pack with Dobby.

"How was your time in the bunker?" she asked me between breaths. "Didn’t see you down there."

"I wasn’t there for long. A few days, at most."

"Easy to lose track of time in a place like that."

I sneaked a glance in her direction while her attention was focused elsewhere. Now that we were close, I could see the bruises under Dobby’s eyes, black and mottled purple under the fluorescent lights above. There were a multitude of others along her cheeks and arms, fading yellow now, but still visible.

What did the Templars do to her in those bunkers while they were leaving me alone? Was she thrown in an Animus like I was? I was about to ask her when we were stopped by another large group of security guards.

Dobby and the others fell into place beside me as we fought. Two of the guards advanced on me quickly; I pushed the closest to the ground and engaged the other with my hidden blade. He threw up what I thought was a nightstick to block my oncoming attack — and I saw too late that the thing was electrified. My lower arm made contact and the jolt knocked me flat on my back. My vision swam and went fuzzy at the edges.

Through it all I could see the guard raise the stick again, eyes gleaming as he brought it down on my face—

Or he was about to, before Clipper blew his face off.

"Stay sharp, Connor!" he said, reaching out to help me up. I took his hand gratefully,

though I was still blinking stars from my eyes.

The guard that I’d pushed was getting back to his feet. He glared at me, gritting his teeth, and started to swing his (thankfully unelectrified) nightstick in my direction. I blocked it with my blade and used my free hand to wrench him closer — so close that he couldn’t strike me again.

"You won’t make it far," he hissed at me.

"Neither will you," I said, and shoved my blade through his eye.

"I’d be careful now, if I was you. He was right."

That voice. That accent. I spun and saw Hickey directly behind me, his lips curled in a disgusting sneer. I raised my arm but his fist was already slamming into my temple. I stumbled back, my head swimming, everything fading to warm shades of red and black.

"Not so nice to be at the receiving end, is it?" Hickey asked, his tone smooth and relaxed. He jabbed again, his fist burying itself in my stomach. I doubled over with a strangled cough. His knee came up a second later and struck my chin.

"Wha’s this? I was expectin’ more from Grand Master ‘Aytham’s precious li’le boy."

He swung his fist once more, but this time I caught it in mine. Hickey’s eyes widened, and I took advantage of his pause to throw a punch of my own. He dodged, but I still hit him hard in the chest, enough to drive the air from his lungs.

Hickey staggered backward, heaving, struggling for breath. I slammed my fist against his jaw. His arm came up, weakly, and it was easily knocked aside.

"Spoke too soon, maybe," he said. And then he smiled — _smiled_ , in spite of it all — and licked the blood from his teeth.

His right hand shot out. I blocked it and replied with a punch of my own, hidden blade engaged, aimed for his throat. But Hickey anticipated it — he threw up his free hand and grabbed me by the wrist. And then he twisted.

The pain was instant. I gasped, hissing through the corners of my mouth, and tried to pull away. But Hickey’s grip was strong; he started to pull me closer, closer-

And then the grip suddenly slackened. I jerked myself away as quickly as I could and saw that Dobby had shoved her own blade through Hickey’s shoulder.

Hickey cursed under his breath. “ _You_ -“

Dobby yanked the blade from his skin, drawing blood, and stood back. She cocked an eyebrow.

"So _you’re_ Johnson’s little pet, are you?” she asked, flicking a strand of sweaty hair from her cheek.

Hickey’s grin twisted, went dark. Dobby’s own derisive smile widened when she saw how her insult touched him.

He lunged.

Dobby met his fists with the blade at her wrist. They grappled for a moment, arms straining and teeth bared, until Dobby swiftly pulled away and put herself on the defensive. Hickey surged toward her again. And I saw it at the last moment — a flash of silver in the air, bright against the overhead lights.

Dobby grunted.

Hickey pulled the knife he’d lodged in her upper chest.

I all but flew to my feet. My lungs were burning, still straining for breath, but-

Dobby shoved her hidden blade through Hickey’s heart — or she tried to. I grabbed him at the same time — he was readying himself to stab her again — and he stumbled back, with Dobby’s blade sinking into the junction where his arm met his shoulder. He shouted and all but fell into my arms.

"Are you okay?" I asked Dobby. I looked wildly to the others, to our brothers — all of them were engaged in battles of their own. More of the security guards were flooding into the hall, surrounding us, cutting off our means of escape.

Dobby pressed a hand to her wound. “I’ll live yet,” she said with a wink. But I could hear the weakness in her voice, the way it wavered as she spoke.

Someone growled, low and dark and heavy. I realized at the last second — as I was pushing Hickey to the ground, as I was withdrawing my blade once more — that it was me.

Hickey wasn’t expecting it. I rammed into him, using all of my strength and momentum to propel him backward against the wall. He grunted, breath whooshing past my ear. I flicked the blade at my wrist, brought my arm back, went to drive it into his stomach-

One of the security guards grabbed me by the shoulders and hauled me bodily across the floor. I fought against him, straining against his hold — and suddenly there were two, three more of them. I watched, heart in my throat, as Hickey wiped the blood from his chin and laughed.

"Lucky they want you alive," he said, eyebrow cocked. "Your other mates, though…"

I strained against the guards. How were there so many of them? We had to break through, had to keep fighting-

One set of hands left my back. Then another. I jerked out of the third guard’s grasp and rounded on him, stabbing my hidden blade through his neck before he could react. I saw then that Dobby had taken out the other two — and she was breathing heavily, one hand still hovering close to the wound. It hadn’t stopped bleeding.

"Don’t overdo it," I told her.

"Ach, Connor. I could tell you the same thing."

I took a moment to follow her gaze, which trailed down my chest. Blood from a cut I didn’t realize I had was gathering along my lower arm.

"I’ll live," I said.

"And so will I."

I nodded to her, and with that, we dove back into the fight, to face Hickey together as Assassin brothers.

Looking back at that now, I wish I’d stopped her. Wish I’d told her to take care of the others. To team up with someone who could have taken better care of her.

I wasn’t thinking clearly then. My mind was a rush of adrenaline. I felt invincible; I felt that we could take down any of the Templars who dared stand against us.

 Achilles would have shaken his head. Would have been disappointed.

We threw ourselves at Hickey, with me taking his right and Dobby at his left. Hickey let us come to him, grin widening, blood blossoming red where Dobby slashed him moments before.

I reached him first. A feint with my left arm — which he anticipated and started to block — before a stab with my right. He blocked that as well.

But then came Dobby. She dove, quick as a cat, hand outstretched, blade flashing. Hickey moved to engage her.

I saw my chance. My opening.

Hickey saw one too, though.

He moved. Let Dobby’s blade rebound off the wall behind him. And, in that moment, she was wide open. She’d expected him to be too busy with my onslaught to pay attention to hers.

Hickey took his knife and rammed it through her chest.

"Dobby!" I shouted her name, but I doubted anyone else could hear me over the din around us; the gunshots, the yells, the curses.

Dobby heard me, though. She watched me as she hit the tiled ground, palms and knees first. A few drops of blood, rich and dark, began to pool beneath her.

And Hickey. He was smiling, _laughing_ , his voice full of murderous joy.

"For all yer boastin’, you really ain’t that good," he said, watching as she slid to her elbows.

"And neither are _you_ ,” I hissed between my teeth.

Hickey looked back at me — but a moment too late. I drove my hidden blade home, straight into his back, just like I’d tried to do the night I chased him. The night the Templars took me to this godforsaken place.

"It’s over," I said as I let him sink to the floor beside Dobby. "It’s done. You’re done."

Hickey started to reply and coughed. He licked his lips and grinned. Why, though? Why was he smiling? How could something like this make him so _happy_?

"It ain’t ever goin’ to be over, boy. You can kill me if it helps ya sleep at night, but you Assassins ‘n Templars are gonna keep fightin’. And one day one of theirs will kill ya too."

"What do you mean? Do you not support the Templar cause?"

Hickey tried to laugh again, but it came out strangled and wrong.

"Templars, Assassins… I support the stronger side, mate, and today, that happens to be the Templars. ‘Nd your old man did me good. Good ol’ ‘Aytham. But he’s blind. You both are."

"I don’t understand."

He moved like he was trying to shrug his shoulders. “What is there to understand? Live my life as I saw fit. And I _enjoyed_ it. You enjoyin’ yours, Connor? Feelin’ satisfied? Get a kick every time you spill some Templar blood?”

I said nothing. He was rambling, making little sense; though I expected little else from Thomas Hickey.

And yet…

I realized then, belatedly, that the battle noise in the hallway had dimmed. I pulled my gaze reluctantly from Hickey.

Only a few guards were left. Jaime and Duncan were engaging them. Where were Clipper and Stephane?

“ _Thomas_!”

I spun around so quickly that I heard the joint in my shoulder pop. I ignored the pain from my newly forming bruises and cuts.

There were two men at the other end of the hall. Both Clipper and Stephane had guns trained on them.

William Johnson was staring at me, the blood draining from his face.

And my father was beside him. His hands were curled into fists, but his face betrayed nothing.

I wanted to be angry. I wanted to rush them, blade drawn from its gauntlet and firm in my hand. I wanted to be able to fight them, like I would any Templar.

But I couldn’t. I looked into my father’s eyes and found myself rooted to the floor, with Hickey bleeding out and Dobby breathing shallowly beside me.

And something inside me cracked and broke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, this one got much longer than expected! And thank you all so much for your kudos and comments! They always mean a lot and I love hearing what you think. I've had so much fun with this story so far.


	26. A Life So Changed

Connor said nothing. Did nothing. His hand was clenched around a knife, dripping with Hickey's blood, and his eyes… I couldn't begin to read them. There was anger there, with a thick, heavy mix of something else.

Johnson took a step closer to Hickey. Connor responded immediately, brandishing his weapon, his face twisting into a scowl. Any other emotions deserted him.

"Hold, William," I said, throwing out a hand to stop Johnson's progress. My friend stilled, but I could hear him breathing hard beside me. I couldn't blame him, of course – his friend was bleeding out in front of us – but my son wouldn't hesitate to slaughter him if given the chance. Johnson was more adept than Church, and a much better fighter, but even I knew he didn't stand a chance against Connor. Not in his current state.

Johnson, of course, completely ignored my demands. He took a few halting steps closer to Connor, arms outstretched, voice strained.

"Is he…" Johnson hesitated for a moment. "How is he?"

Connor only stared at him, brow wrinkled.

"William,  _please_ ," I hissed under my breath.

Johnson took another step forward – a cautious one, but the small group of Assassins acted quickly. Connor gripped the knife tighter in his hand, and his companions rushed to form a protective barrier.

I moved quickly to Johnson's side, but I didn't reach for the gun at my hip. Not yet, at least. I still needed my chance to speak with Connor, and he wouldn't give me that chance if I so much as challenged any of his friends.

Still, my son never lowered the knife in his hand.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. The hostility in his tone was raw and utterly scathing. I hadn't heard such anger from him before, not even during our Templar versus Assassin arguments.

"I wanted to speak with you," I said, tentative.

Connor's frown deepened, but one of his companions actually had the gall to scoff in my face. "A talk, hm?" the man asked me. "I didn't know you Templars were capable of  _talks_ that didn't involve weapons."

I held up my empty hands. "I only wish to speak with my son. I'm offering no resistance."

The man started to reply, but Connor cut him off before he could open his mouth.

"Now is not the time for a… _talk_ ," he said. "And I think your opportunity has long passed."

"There is still time, Connor. This can be fixed, this-"

He gave me a low, cruel laugh. "This can still be fixed?  _This_?" he motioned to Hickey and the other bodies with a thrust of his knife. "And Benjamin Church? No, Haytham. I don't think so."

"Connor-"

My son stood slowly, brushing the wrinkles and blood from his front.

"We have to go. Don't follow us – we'll shoot this time."

One of the Assassins turned to their fallen comrade – the young woman we'd been keeping down in the basement cells. I'd almost forgotten about her.

"But Dobby-" the man started.

Connor looked down on her. She wasn't breathing anymore – that much was clear – and it was doubtful that she had much of a pulse. Still, Connor knelt to press his fingers to her neck.

"We…will have to leave her," he said.

"But-"

"There's no time," one of the other Assassins said. "We've wasted enough with these Templars."

Connor nodded to his friends.

And he started to turn away.

"Don't do this," I told him. "If you leave now, it's all over."

He hesitated. Just for a moment.

"It already is," he said, quietly.

Connor motioned to the others. They grouped into a tight circle and, with one last, regretful look back at the Dobby woman, set off down the hall at a brisk run.

I considered following them – but the two men at the back of the group were holding rather large guns, and I thought better of my decision.

Johnson all but ran to Hickey's side as soon as the Assassins left our section of the corridor. The younger man was barely breathing; even I could hear his raspy inhales from where I was standing. Hickey's blood blossomed like a red flower across his chest, bright and startling under the fluorescent lights.

"'m fine, boss," he said to Johnson, who knelt beside him. "It's just a little-"

"Don't try to fool me with your heroics, Hickey. I'm already calling for help."

I looked over Hickey's wound, but I made no comment; he'd already lost so much blood. Connor sank his blade in deep. But if it was Hickey who killed his friend - that woman Dobby - I suppose he believed he had reason to.

I approached the Assassins' leftover carnage – fallen security guards (I would have to advise Birch to invest in a better force once this was all over) and the like – while Johnson attended to Hickey. There was blood everywhere, a stark contrast to the white tile floor and walls. Every single one of the men and women were dead, felled by precise slashes to their throats or gunshot wounds to vitals.

The Assassins were efficient and well-trained. I had to give them that, at the very least.

"Are you going after them?"

Johnson's voice interrupted my brief reverie. I turned to him, arms limp at my sides.

"They'll shoot me if I so much as try," I said. "Did you not see them?"

"Has a threat like that ever stopped you before?"

He had a point.

"Give him a good kick in the arse for me if ya do go," Hickey added with a wheezing breath.

I gave Hickey a look. And then I stared down the hall, down where my son and his entourage of killers made their escape.

I weighed my options: I could forget about this and stay behind with Johnson and Hickey. I could confine myself to the highest floors of Abstergo and watch their progress from there. Perhaps I could hope for their escape, for Connor's survival.

I could do exactly what I'd done to Ziio, really. I could watch my son – my last remaining family, aside from my distant half-sister and the father who I never spoke to – disappear from my life completely. Possibly die, as his mother had. And I could regret my decisions for the rest of my life.

"See to it that all of this is taken care of," I told Johnson while I motioned to the dead bodies around us.

"Haytham," he started, but I was already gone, already running down the hall.

I would find Connor. And this time I wouldn't give up on him.

…Locating the Assassins was another challenge in and of itself, however. I knew they were moving lower in the building, but which route would they take? The Abstergo building was so large, it would take me – one single person – hours to find them. If I could be so lucky.

Not for the first time, I cursed the Templars for their (occasional) flair and vanity. What was the purpose of so many sprawling floors? How could I possibly hope to find the Assassins when there were over a dozen floors and even more hallways?

And then it hit me like a bolt of lightning. I could have slapped myself.

The security cameras. Of course. If the Assassins hadn't sabotaged them, there might still be a chance.

I spun on my heel and made my way back to the elevators on the other side of the floor. The nearest security room – and also the largest, with the most cameras at my disposal – was almost five flights below me. Running down that many sets of stairs was not an option.

…Or perhaps it was. I pressed the button to summon the elevator, but it refused to move from the tenth floor.

Damned Assassins. I sighed heavily and made my way back to the stairwell.

I'm loathe to admit it, but I used the stairwell very rarely in those days. When I was younger, I prided myself on my ability to climb so many flights every day; lately, however, I was taking the elevator more and more often. The main stairwell was such a dismal and uninviting place, anyway: it was more industrial, made primarily from cement and steel, unlike the rest of the building. The only windows it boasted looked out on the alleyway.

I nudged the heavy doors open somewhat reluctantly. Part of me expected – hoped, really – to hear the Assassins and security fighting somewhere below; but it was empty and far too quiet for my liking. The only sound I could hear was my own breathing, harsh and suddenly loud in the silence.

I let the doors shut behind me as I made my down. I had five flights and absolutely no time to waste.

The stairs below were littered with blood and bodies – of the security guards, mostly. I could see no Assassins. All that was left of them were red handprints and discarded (and I assumed empty) guns. They must have been pulling fresh ones from the bodies of the guards they slew.

The violence seemed almost wanton. Unneeded. Didn't the Assassins pride themselves on their ability to sneak and sulk through the shadows?

I was still mulling over this when the door in front of me burst open. I stumbled backward and just barely avoided tripping over one of the steps.

A hand reached out and wrapped around my own. "Sir! Are you all right?"

I looked up and met Charles's worried gaze. Part of me was relieved to see him – safety in trusted numbers – but on the other hand, I knew Connor would be less than thrilled. It could come to blows before I had a chance to say my piece.

"I'm fine," I said. "What's the situation?"

"The Assassins are below us. I checked the security footage just now. We can catch up with them if we're fast."

"That was exactly what I was planning to do. Good work."

Charles stood up a little straighter at that. It was difficult to hold back a grin; so it seemed he still wasn't immune to my praise.

"Let's go, then," he said. "They're not far."

I followed him – hesitantly, of course. It would be suicide to meet Connor with his most hated enemy at my side. I still didn't understand his contempt for the man, but for now I had to accept it.

"Perhaps you could wait for them here in the stairwell?" I suggested between breaths. "They may try to escape me when I confront them."

"Pitcairn is holding them off for us. They're trapped between his men."

"Pitcairn?"

"Mr. Birch sent him ahead. We're to help finish them off while they're surrounded."

My blood went cold.

This would not do. This was not what I wanted. My last chance to speak with my son was quickly slipping between my fingers.

"Where  _is_ Reginald?" I asked, keeping my tone carefully neutral.

"I haven't seen him since we parted in the Animus room. After he asked you to return to your office." Charles gave me a sidelong glance. "He didn't ask you to join me?"

"No. I made the decision to leave on my own."

"Sir-"

"Might I remind you that I am not a child to be ordered about, Charles."

"Of course, sir." He paused. "Have you seen any of the others?"

"Only Johnson and Hickey."

"And they are…?"

"Alive, for now."

Charles nodded. "Good. We'll crush the Assassins before they kill anyone else."

I said nothing. If Charles noticed my silence, he didn't comment on it.

He finally came to a stop at one of the doors and threw it open with his shoulder. I moved in after him, alert, one hand hovering over the gun at my hip and the other flexed to deploy my hidden blade.

"They should be here," he said.

There were rooms on either side of us, all in various states of disarray; I supposed the scientists and other employees had run when the Assassins started moving through. I walked in front of Charles, and he fell easily into step behind me.

"Mr. Birch would have us eradicate them," he said suddenly. "Are you sure you're ready for that, sir?"

"And why have you decided to bring this up now?"

"Because you seem awfully attached to that boy of yours."

"Imagine you had a son, Charles. One you finally had a chance to meet after missing nearly twenty years of his life. What would you do in my position? Simply kill him without a second thought?"

Charles was quiet for a moment. He had no children of his own; so I had no idea why I'd even bothered to speak with him about this. I was about to interrupt him when he finally spoke up.

"I would be loyal to the Order. As I always have been. And as I would expect you to be, too."

"I am loyal to the Order."

"Are you truly, sir?"

I stopped and rounded on him. Charles's expression was one of absolute calm.

"Do not question my loyalty to the Order," I told him. "One can be loyal to the cause while still showing loyalty for others."

He stared at me for a long time before he finally replied.

"If you say so, sir."

I turned back and stalked forward. Who was this man, and what had he done with the Charles Lee I once knew? This one had become entirely consumed by his hatred for Assassins and his supposed loyalty to the Order.

I sighed. Now was not the time to dwell on this.

I realized then that I could hear the fighting even from our side of the corridor. I forced myself to run faster, harder, until my blood was pounding in my ears. Charles was somewhere behind me, but I'd forgotten about him for the moment; I was so close now. And I couldn't afford to make any more mistakes.

I touched my gun as I rounded the corner. The situation was even more chaotic than I'd anticipated; there were more bodies – of both Assassins and Abstergo security this time, it seemed – and there was more blood. Both sides seemed to have taken cover behind upturned tables and desks.

And, as luck would have it, Charles and myself were stuck in the middle. I grabbed him by the collar of his coat and jerked him back in the hall behind me.

"Sir, I can-"

"We'll be shot to pieces if we just run out there," I hissed between my teeth.

"We have to get to Pitcairn's side. We can support him from there."

"Find a way to his half of the corridor. I'll-"

I was cut off by a great cry from the battle behind us. I turned away from Charles and saw that the Assassins had broken through Pitcairn's line of defense. They were pushing their way forward, guns and hidden blades at the ready. A few more of the security guards fell before them.

Charles tore himself from my grasp before I could stop him.

"Charles! We can't just-"

He took the butt of his handgun and hit one of the Assassins – this one I recognized as Clipper, the one who'd managed to worm his way into our security ranks for some time – upside the head. He stumbled backward, holding his temple. Blood seeped gently through his fingers when he pulled them away.

Charles drew back, his gun aloft and aimed for Clipper's face. The young Assassin stepped back as well and started to swing his hefty rifle – but it was too late. All of us knew it was. But damned if he didn't try.

Charles pulled the trigger, but Clipper was gone. I noticed only a moment later that he'd fallen to the floor.

How...?

A black and blue blur slammed heavily into Charles's chest. I heard his "oof!" of surprise as he hit the ground, backside first. His assailant was poised above him, fist clenched and raised. It came down on Charles's face with a sickening crunch.

I rushed forward. My hidden blade engaged with the softest  _snick_.

"Cha-"

And then I saw Charles's attacker. My words died in my mouth. It was as though my tongue had turned to lead; too heavy to move, too heavy to speak.

I reached out and grabbed Connor's fist before he could bring it down again. His knuckles were slick with the blood from Charles's nose.

Connor made a sound not unlike a snarl – and then he looked up at me.

"Haytham," he said, teeth bared in a grimace. "Take your hand  _off me_ or I'll-"

"Stop this," I said to him. "Stop this before it's too late."

"It's already too late! It's-"

Charles mustered up the strength to throw Connor from his chest. My son rolled away and sprang back to his feet.

" _You_ again," Charles muttered under his breath. He cast a glance in my direction; it lasted only a moment before he focused his attention back on Connor. The boy had pulled the blade from his gauntlet and was holding it tightly.

"Wait, Charles-"

My words fell on deaf ears.

Connor was too close for Charles to shoot; the older man brandished his gun like a blunt weapon and moved to hit Connor with it. The Assassin moved deftly away and stabbed at Charles again. Charles was fast, though – faster than I'd imagined. He kicked at Connor, who caught his foot in his hands – but the force of it made him stumble backward, down to his knees.

Moving between them would be suicide. Still, I threw out a hand to restrain Charles, who was closest to me. My fingers grabbed thin air when he stepped back to aim the barrel of his gun at Connor's face.

My son was still pushing himself to his feet.

There was no time.

So I acted rather impulsively. I shoved Connor out of the way and tried to throw myself down with him. I didn't anticipate how quickly Charles would pull the trigger, however; and I was rewarded with a burst of pain that dyed my vision a startling, blinding white.

I felt my body hit the floor, but for a moment I couldn't see. I realized that my eyes were squeezed shut. I opened them, blinked twice – and saw both Connor and Charles watching me with awe and utter horror respectively.

Blood ran down my cheek. I wiped at it with my sleeve. The bullet only grazed me, thank god.

"Sir..." Charles breathed the word. "Why did you... Why? I thought we were..."

"You ignored my commands."

"Of course I did! He's an  _Assassin_ , he was attacking me! What would you have me do? Allow him to stab me through the chest?"

"No. I only wanted-"

"To  _speak_ with him? Is that what this is all about? Is that the reason why you left your office?"

Charles advanced toward us, eyes narrowed. His finger was still wrapped around the trigger of his gun; it was difficult for me to watch both him and the weapon at the same time. The man was completely unpredictable when he was this upset.

"Allow me to speak with him," I asked, calm as possible. "Just for a moment."

"He is our  _enemy_ , Haytham, and I thought you'd be smart enough to realize this!"

I opened my mouth to protest – and then I stopped. There was no point in arguing with Charles when he was like this. He would argue and rant until the sun set.

He stopped a few yards away from me. He was breathing heavily, and blood was still pouring from his nose. It had to be broken and endlessly painful, but nothing in his expression betrayed his discomfort. His rage had consumed him.

"Do you intend to betray us?" he asked, so quietly that I barely heard him above the din behind us.

"When did I ever say I would?"

"I could have taken him out. You saved the Assassin's  _life_."

"He is not just an  _Assassin_. He is my son."

Charles's eyes were cold as ice.

Connor shifted beside me. I couldn't bear to look at him – couldn't bear it if I saw the rejection written across his face again.

"After all we've experienced together as brothers," Charles said. "And you've chosen a child you barely know."

"I thought I knew you, Charles. But you've changed – you, Reginald... This whole organization has taken a different turn. The Templars I knew were a noble bunch. Dedicated to the cause and the fight. But now there is only bloodshed, there-"

"How can you presume to know  _anything_ about us when you've been so absent these last few months?!"

Perhaps Charles was right. Perhaps I didn't know these men as well as I thought. But it was  _them_ I was unfamiliar with – the Templar cause I knew perfectly. I understood that.

"You have lost sight of what's important," Charles continued.

"No," I said. "Perhaps I have only realized what is more important."

Charles didn't respond – not in words, at least. His voice came out as a snarl, a growl, unearthly and chilling. He swung his arm, and I started to throw mine up to block it-

Connor thrust himself between us both. I saw the flash of the hidden blade at his wrist –saw it moments before he buried it in Charles's stomach.

Charles's hand still came down, but the blow was softened against my arm. The man was staring at Connor, eyes wide, mouth agape. The bottom half of his face was stained red by his own blood.

Connor brought his face close to Charles's and whispered, "This was for the people of my home."

He jerked the blade from Charles's stomach.

"And for all of the Assassins – all of my brothers and sisters – that you've murdered."

Charles stepped back on uneasy feet. He looked to me, his gaze imploring; and for a moment I thought I saw the ghost of the man I'd once known, the one who wasn't quite so bloodthirsty, the young man who'd greeted me at the airport when I first arrived in the United States. I saw the youth there, the eagerness to learn.

I missed that version of my old friend.

Charles's expression reverted back to one of hate. I could see him trying to force his body to move, to fight back against Connor – but he was so weak already from all the blood he'd lost. He stumbled back against the wall and sank to the floor.

"Haytham," he said.

I watched him. I was unsure. Pitcairn would tend to him – if he was still alive, at least. The Assassins had lost some of their numbers, but they were stronger and more resilient than I gave them credit for. Abstergo had killed and imprisoned so many of them, and yet they had managed to come back at almost full force.

My father would have been proud.

"Will you stay?"

I turned at the sound of Connor's voice. His expression wasn't quite so hateful now; it was curious, almost, and as unsure as mine.

"I..."

"If you still want to talk, then you'd better follow me."

I hesitated. This was what I wanted, what I had fought my way through Abstergo for; but if I went with him now, if I abandoned Charles...

"You would betray us all for these Assassins," Charles said, his voice hoarse.

"I am not betraying the Templars," I told him.

And, for the moment, I left it at that. Connor was already halfway down the hall, closing in on Pitcairn's barricade – or rather, what little remained of it.

I followed him.


	27. Rot and Decay

Haytham Kenway.

My father.

What in the world was I doing? Why was I letting him follow me back to the others? I still didn't know how I felt about him. He'd saved my life back there, but in the end, he was still a Templar. He was a Grand Master. That shouldn't change anything.

I could hardly think straight. There was blood all over my hands. I'd just stabbed Charles Lee in the stomach.

Charles Lee.

My head was a mess.

We crossed the hall to the half Pitcairn fought so hard to hold. It was quieter then; my Assassin brothers had cleared out the majority of the leftover guards and Templars. Stephane was standing watch while Jaime patched up the giant gash on Clipper's forehead. I had no idea where the others were.

"Connor," he started. His eyes narrowed when he saw Haytham hovering behind me.

Stephane started forward. I pressed a hand to his shoulder and forced him back.

"Haytham is with me," I said.

"Why? Connor, he's-"

"I know what he is. But he's not a danger to us right now."

Stephane stared at me like I'd grown another head.

"He abandoned Charles Lee back there. I stabbed him. And broke his nose. I think."

"Calm down. You're exhausted. Come on," he said, ushering me back behind the makeshift barricade. He gave Haytham a long, searching look, but I waved a hand and he finally decided to back off.

"Killing the Templar is not allowed, apparently," he announced to the others when they gave my father hostile looks. "Connor's orders."

"I spend a lot of time wondering what's going through that head of yours," Clipper said. He looked like he was going to say something else, but Jaime pressed a piece of cloth to his wound and he winced.

"Friendly bunch, your companions," Haytham muttered. He leaned against the wall and put a hand to his still-bleeding cheek.

"Here." I bent and cut the sleeve from a dead guard's uniform. Haytham watched me cautiously as I held it out to him.

He took it after a moment's hesitation and pressed it to his cut.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"We are leaving in a moment, Connor," Stephane said when I turned back to them. "Jacob went after Pitcairn."

"He ran?"

"He was speaking to someone on his cell when we approached. A higher-up, maybe. And then he left."

"Coward."

"It was Reginald Birch, most likely," Haytham said. "He might be rallying the troops to the lower floors. They'll be waiting for us."

"'Us'?" Clipper repeated. There was a hard, disbelieving edge to his voice. "What makes you think you're coming along?"

"I only-"

I stepped between them before they could start an argument. I was impatient, and I was beyond tired, and we were running out of time.

"He wanted to speak to me," I said. "He saved my life, so I'm giving him a chance."

"He's the Grand Master. Reginald Birch's lapdog and your Charles Lee's best friend. We can't trust him."

"You don't have to. But I am."

Clipper's lips clamped shut, but the look he gave me was one of confusion and anger. I couldn't blame him; I brought an enemy to the heart of our group and expected everyone to let him be. To trust him not to kill us all.

I was beginning to question my judgment, too.

Another set of footsteps - hurried - came rushing at us from the other end of the hall. We all prepared ourselves - even Haytham, I noticed - but it was only Jacob Zenger who rounded the corner.

"Lost him," he said breathlessly. "No sign of any of 'em, actually. I have a feeling they're all-"

He caught sight of Haytham and stopped. Jacob's mouth floundered for a moment, wordless. And then he reached for the gun at his waistband.

"He's off limits," Stephane said before I could react.

"The Grand  _fucking_ Master Templar is off limits?"

"Ask Connor," Clipper said, nodding to me.

"He only wants to speak. I'm giving him a chance," I said.

"Connor..." Jacob shook his head back and forth. The sweat beading at his brow ran down the sides of his red face. "Connor, he's dangerous. I know he's your old man and all, but-"

"He...stopped Charles Lee from shooting me. I believe he deserves-"

"Absolutely  _nothing._ " He threw his arms up in the air. "I can't believe we're having this conversation right now."

"Neither can I," Duncan said. "We don't have the time for it. Let Connor do what he thinks is right - I trust him. And we can more than take care of ourselves if the Templar goes rogue."

"Quite a vote of confidence," Haytham said, just loud enough for the others to hear. I shot him a look of warning.

"We have to keep moving," I said. "We've stopped here for long enough. Clipper, are you okay?"

"I've had worse."

"Good. Let's go."

I let Jacob and Jaime take the lead again. They knew the layout of the building (or they mostly did, anyway); I trusted them to bring us to the safety of the streets. Clipper and Duncan took up the rear, which left Haytham and myself in the middle of the circle.

"Birch and the others are probably waiting for us - for you, I suppose - at the bottom of the building. They'll have every exit and entrance sealed off," he said. "There will be no way to avoid them."

"How do you know this?" I asked him.

"I know how he works. I've seen him in action plenty of times."

"...You've done this before. Prevented an escape, I mean."

"Once before. A long time ago."

"What happened?"

"Only one Assassin left the building, but only after making a promise to us." Haytham met my gaze, but only briefly. "His name was Achilles Davenport."

I felt my expression settle into a glare. Haytham stared back at me evenly.

"What else can we expect?" I said after a pause.

"I don't know, to be perfectly honest. I organized the last blockade - this time, Birch is completely in charge. We'll see what he decides to do."

"Some help he is," Clipper muttered from behind us.

I realized then that he was listening - that they were all listening, probably. The others knew very little about my relationship with my father, aside from what they'd heard during my discussion with Achilles.

Which felt so long ago. Had the Templars sent someone to find him while they routed us? I hoped not; though I knew Achilles could take care of himself just fine. He had a bad leg, but he was far from incapacitated.

Haytham interrupted my thoughts with an almost whispered question. "What is this fixation you have on Charles?"

"Fixation?"

"Oh, don't play dumb with me. You've been obsessed with the man since before we met."

"It's not an obsession."

"Regardless." Haytham paused for a moment. His expression was thoughtful, pensive. "What did he do to your people? You mentioned that when you skewered him."

I fell silent.

It had been so long. I hadn't told anyone this story, not even Achilles. The old man probably knew all the details anyway; he'd never asked, at least. And my friends didn't know why I'd been hunting Charles Lee all these years - they only knew that he was my target. And that was all they had to know.

But Haytham... He had some right. Some. Since my mother was involved.

"It was when I was a teenager. He and some of your other lackeys came to the reservation."

Haytham raised a brow. "Why?"

"I'm getting to that," I snapped back. "Anyway. Charles cornered me and pulled me aside. He was asking about... I don't know, artifacts, something. They were supposed to be on the reservation land. I'm guessing the Templars weren't allowed to look for them. He asked to see whoever was in charge. I didn't tell him. He hit me upside the head with the butt of his gun."

My father cringed. "Something changed in him around that time," he said. "He was more...not bloodthirsty. Eager, I suppose. Too eager for his own good."

"That's no excuse."

"I know. Go on."

"When I came to, several of the houses on the reservation were on fire. One was mine and my mother's. I ran back, but..."

"It was too late."

"Yeah."

We walked in silence for a while. All sorts of emotions were running across Haytham's face: confusion, some anger, sadness. I don't know why, but they all took me by surprise.

"I thought you knew."

"No, I... I didn't. Not the full story, anyway. But I didn't send Charles and the others to the reservation that day. I told them it was time to focus on different tasks. We were to leave the artifacts alone for the time being, since there was nothing we could do about them-"

"But why was he there? Why did he burn down my mother's house? Why-"

Haytham put a hand on my shoulder. I started to shake it off, but his grip was firm and unrelenting.

"I did not ask him to be. He was there on his own-"

"With several of your other Templars."

"But they were not there by my command, Connor."

"Then who started that fire? It was a confirmed arson. The point of origin was in my house. I thought because we refused to give Lee the information he wanted, he-"

"It could have been anyone. It could have been an accident. I don't know. But I highly doubt it was Charles."

Excuses, all of them. I frowned at him, but Haytham wasn't looking in my direction anymore.

"What about all of the Assassins he's murdered? And by _your_  command?"

"Oh, for the love of..." He stopped in the middle of the hall then, turning to face me with exasperation in his eyes. Clipper and Duncan nearly ran into the both of us.

"Do you realize how hypocritical you sound right now? How many  _Templars_ have you and your merry band of Assassins killed today?"

"This was in self-defense only-"

"And before today? How many did Achilles kill, hm?" Haytham crossed his arms over his chest as he spoke. "The Templars don't claim to be perfect, Connor. And neither do the Assassins. I'd say we're quite even when it comes to your so-called 'murders'."

"All you're doing is making more ex-"

"Are you coming or not?"

We both looked up. Jacob and Jaime were beckoning us, and neither seemed amused.

"We can argue this later," Duncan said. "For now, we have to get moving."

I begrudgingly let Duncan nudge me forward. Clipper started to do the same for Haytham - who gave him a look so venomous that Clipper withdrew as though he'd been bitten.

And so our journey to the first floor continued in silence. I was surprised by how few security guards we met, and how easily they were dispatched. Perhaps Haytham was right, and Birch was pooling his resources for one final stand.

The thought made me uneasy. The security, we could handle just fine... But an entire group of well-trained Templars?

No. We could handle it. I couldn't doubt our strength now, not when we'd come so far. And besides, Church was already dead. Hickey and Lee were as good as dead. That didn't leave Birch with many options.

I glanced again at Haytham, though. What would he do once we were facing his co-workers? Join them? Do nothing? I really couldn't see him fighting on our side against Pitcairn and Johnson and whoever else decided to show up.

We were making our way through the second floor - a series of glass cubicles and a few high-ceilinged and luxurious conference rooms - when my father spoke again.

"This isn't the ideal situation for a discussion, but... I wanted to talk to you before you left," he said, just loudly enough for me to hear.

"About all of this, I assume."

He nodded. "Yes. I know we have our differences, Connor, but I'm glad you came to me. Thank you for reaching out. Honestly, I never would have done it on my own, had I known of your existence. I would have assumed you were living your own life happily enough without me in it."

"I wanted...to clear things up," I told him. "Both my mother and Achilles had their own opinions, but I wanted to form my own."

"I see."

"So, um...thanks. For agreeing to meet."

"I'm glad I did."

I looked up at him. The anger and frustration had left his tone, leaving it surprisingly...genuine. And from what I understood after just a few months of knowing him, this sort of praise from Haytham was very difficult to come by.

"When you see Achilles again, thank him for me. For helping you become the man you are today."

Something in my chest seized up.

"It wasn't just Achilles. It was my mother too."

Haytham nodded again. A ghost of a smile stretched across his weary face.

"Of course. Yes. Your mother was a remarkable woman."

He met my eyes again.

It felt like he was saying goodbye.

I opened my mouth, but no words would come out. I couldn't think of anything appropriate to say. Except...

"Thank you," I murmured.

And I looked away before Haytham could respond.

We descended a final set of stairs - no security guards met us - before we came to a heavy set of steel doors. They were locked, but Haytham stepped up with a card key in hand.

"The hall beyond here leads to both the lobby and the delivery dock doors in the back. And I can guarantee you that Birch and the others will be waiting. Are you sure you're ready?" he asked us.

Jacob snorted. "Well, we didn't come all this way for nothing."

Haytham slipped his card through the scanner. The doors slid apart, and he moved aside to let us through.

I took the lead this time. The corridor beyond was absolutely dead silent; every room around us was empty, completely devoid of the employees and visitors I'd seen the few times I'd been in the building.

It was like Abstergo had been abandoned.

"Keep on your toes. They've got something up their sleeves," Clipper whispered to me. I nodded briefly.

It took me a moment to realize that Haytham had retaken his spot beside me. The air he gave off was one of complete confidence; he walked with his back straight, his head held high, and his hands loose at his sides.

"Come out, Reginald," he called. His voice echoed through the empty halls. "I've had enough of your games."

Clipper reached out to grab his shoulder and jerk him back. "Don't you  _dare_  try to-"

Someone stepped out into the hall in front of us. Several someones, actually. I engaged the hidden blade at my wrist without thinking, and I thought I heard Haytham do the same.

"Haytham?" an all-too familiar voice asked. Reginald Birch himself moved to the front of his little group of Templars, his hands clasped behind his back and his expression one of confusion.

"Haytham, what on  _earth_ are you doing?" he asked, taking a few more steps forward. The Assassins behind me quickly formed a defensive half-circle around us.

"I'm curious about something, Reginald," Haytham said, moving to meet his superior in the middle of the hall. "How long have you been searching for the Apple?"

"A rather random question, but I'll humor you for now," Birch mused. "For as long as you have, my friend. You know that."

"And what lengths have you gone to in order to secure it?"

"Any. The precursor site is one of invaluable knowledge; we need what's inside. You know all of this, Haytham, so why are you-"

"A group of men -  _my_ men, the men working under  _me,_ the Grand Master of the east coast - were sighted at the reservation several years ago. Against my orders, which were to leave the precursor site be and focus on more practical things."

Birch seemed unconcerned. "What point are you trying to get to?"

"You sent them, didn't you?"

"This was so many years ago-"

" _Didn't_ you?"

"Yes, yes. I did. I wanted them to speak with the elders, to ask about the Apple and whatever other artifacts they may have been hiding on their property."

"Did you go so far as to light houses on fire?"

Birch stared after Haytham for a long time. He was a calm and collected man; I barely knew him, but he didn't seem the type to get visibly upset about anything. Even now he was cool and passive.

"I sent the men to do their own interrogations while I worked alone."

Haytham said nothing, but I could hear him breathing harder and harder with each passing second.

"This bears a remarkable similarity to the fire that occurred at my family home," he said after a moment's pause. "When a group of men broke in and tried to kill my father. The house was set alight after his documents were stolen."

"House fires are a common thing. You're being paranoid, Haytham, and these accusations will get you nowhere."

"And yet you were present for both."

That shut Birch up.

The two men alongside Birch - one of them, bleeding, I recognized as Pitcairn from the upper floors – started to move. The other was a much rougher man: the sailor Biddle, I believed. Johnson, Hickey, and Lee were all absent.

"I understand that your boy stabbed both Thomas and Charles," Birch said as his Templars stepped forward to protect him. "They were taken in, but I don't know a thing about their current conditions. And William is being stubborn about my summons."

"He will stay with Hickey, most likely."

"William will be dealt with later. For now, though..." Birch watched us from the safety of his bodyguards. "I can't begin to imagine why you harbor this sudden hate for me, Haytham. I don't understand it at all."

"You - and Charles, and almost everyone else - have grown ruthless. Less dedicated to the Templar cause and more focused on your own personal gain. I'm only just seeing this now, but apparently it's been going on for quite some time."

"I don't know about that. I've seen a change in you, though. So has Charles. He's been worried about you and how much you've been focusing on matters outside of Abstergo. He claims you've betrayed us, actually. You did nothing to stop your boy when he attacked Charles."

"I have not betrayed the Templars. But I've begun to question your ways, Reginald."

Birch put a hand to his chest. "Mine? After I took you in and raised you in accordance to our ways-"

"You set not only  _my_  home on fire, but my son's and his mother's as well!"

"Not on  _purpose_." Birch's gaze flickered to mine. I was too stunned to do anything but stare back.

"His mother - I'm assuming she's the woman who was named Ziio? - was the daughter of one of the elders and knew the most about the artifacts. Or so I'd been led to assume. She refused to tell me anything about them. There was a scuffle, and..."

It felt as though he'd shoved a ton of bricks down my throat. My body was heavy and cold all at once. The hall seemed to sway, to tip on its side against my will.

Haytham seemed angrier, more uncontrollably furious than anything else. I watched him stalk closer to Birch, even when Biddle and Pitcairn - the latter of whom seemed sympathetic and confused - moved to stop him.

"Why didn't you tell me about this?" Haytham asked, his tone rising. "Why did you override my orders? You sent _me_  here specifically to find the precursor site. That was  _my_ job, and you-"

"I sent you here to open the door to the precursor site, and you couldn't do even that. Charles was sending me reports that you'd taken up with a woman from the reservation and all other activity within the Order seemed to come to a halt."

"Am I not allowed to have a life  _outside_  of the Order? Am I-"

"Not one that will disrupt your work!"

Haytham was shaking his head. "You had no right, Reginald. You had no right. You're not the man I once knew - you're not noble, or kind, or curious about the precursor site simply because. You've grown greedy for it. Do you truly want what's inside for the Templar cause? To better the world? Or do you have your own plans now?"

"I still want to better the world. That is all I have ever wanted. I have a plan, and it's-"

"Control. Utter control."

"You misunderstand me."

"No. I think I understand you all too well."

Birch studied my father for a moment. And he sighed.

"Something's gone rotten in you, Haytham," he said.

And that was all he said before he took a gun from his front pocket.

I started running for him just before I heard the weapon fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! I haven't written any chapter notes here in a while, and I wanted to thank you all so much for taking the time to comment and give kudos. I appreciate your feedback and the like so much; it really means a lot, and I'm glad so many people are enjoying the story.


	28. Reginald Birch's Last Stand

I heard the shot, and after that, I was aware of almost nothing else, save the three men in front of me.

I couldn't spare a glance in Haytham's direction. At first, I told myself it was because I had to focus everything on Birch and the Templars. Birch himself wouldn't hesitate to shoot us both if I stopped for even a second.

But, thinking back, I realized I might have been afraid to look. To see if he'd been shot or not. If he was dead on the floor with a red hole between his eyes.

Pitcairn was the one who intercepted me. I knew he had a gun hidden somewhere on his person, but for the moment, I was too close to shoot at. So he drew a...sword? Rapier? and used it to block the hidden blade I'd aimed for his throat. I vaguely remembered Achilles warning me that Pitcairn was decent with a sword or something of the like, but…honestly, I'd never expected him to actually use it.

Our blades met with a great clatter of metal on metal. He tried to push me back - but I pushed harder and took a few halting steps closer. There was no fear in Pitcairn's eyes when he stared back at me.

"Wait," he said to me, but I ignored him and pressed harder.

I was barely aware of what was happening around me, but I tried to keep an eye on Biddle and Birch, just in case they decided to round on me. I saw flashes of Biddle from my peripheral; the other Assassins were keeping him engaged. Good. And Birch was stalking the edges of the fray, his gaze following someone else. The Assassins, probably. I wasn't sure.

And Haytham... I saw nothing of him. I didn't want to look. Not that I could, what with Pitcairn almost literally breathing down my neck.

Pitcairn finally managed to push me away. I kept my balance and stood back. Pitcairn watched me, walking in a slow, methodical circle. He didn't even blink, didn't seem bothered by the fact that the wounds he'd sustained in our earlier fight – on the upper floors, before Haytham and Charles surprised us – were still bleeding.

He would be much more of a challenge than Church and Hickey. Maybe even Charles Lee.

At first he did nothing, and I assumed he was waiting for me to make the first move. That was my first mistake, and one Achilles had warned me against. "Never make any assumptions about your enemy," he used to tell me. "They like to surprise us. Even a group as predictable and old-fashioned as the Templars."

Pitcairn moved to his left. I instantly adjusted my position.

And then he struck to the right. I started to dodge again, but I was too slow. His blade ripped through my jacket sleeve and slid across the skin of my arm. It stung, but I fought to keep my attention on the Templar.

I'd already switched my hidden blade from the gauntlet to my hand. It was longer than your average dagger, but still a poor weapon against the longer reach of a sword. I would have to make due until I was in a position to shoot or stab him.

Pitcairn wouldn't give me those positions so easily. I was coming to realize this when he lunged again. I moved from his reach and struck out. He was fast, but he was older than I was; the blade caught his sword hand and drew blood.

We were even. For the moment, anyway. But I saw now that I could use my speed to my advantage.

Pitcairn moved forward to strike again. I threw up my knife and managed to block it - but he was pushing forward again, trying to force me to my knees. He was stronger than I anticipated.

But not strong enough. I slipped closer to him, until I could feel his breath against my face. The surprise was clear in his eyes; why was I getting so close? Did I have a death wish? His grip didn't let up, but it didn't matter.

I rammed my forehead into his face. Pitcairn staggered backward, giving me a chance to dart forward, wrest the sword from his grip, and shove him to the ground. I pinned him down before he could push himself back up and attack me.

I held the knife over his neck. And I was about to slit it before he spoke.

"You're Haytham's boy?" he asked. His voice was strong and unwavering, even with a weapon being held to his vulnerable throat.

"It doesn't matter right now."

"But you're him? You're Connor Kenway?"

"Yes. Just Connor. Now-"

"Listen to me, boy. Don't kill me. I can help the two of you."

I made a noise that sounded like a derisive snort. "What makes you think I'm going to trust you now? After you just tried to run me through with a sword?"

"What do you expect me to do, cower while you come rushing at me with a hidden blade? Now, listen: I believe in Haytham more than I do Birch. Let me help. Please."

"...I can't trust you."

"Why? Because I'm a Templar?"

"That's part of it."

"Your father is a Templar, and yet you still seem to trust him."

"That's different."

"Not so much," he said. "Let me up. Let me help."

I hesitated - probably for too long, given our circumstances - with my knife still pressed against his neck. All I had to do was cut, and I could move on to Biddle or Birch. We'd be one step closer to ending this.

Pitcairn made no move to resist me. "Please," he whispered again. "I've known Birch for longer than you have. I know his weaknesses. And I agree with Haytham - I don't believe in what he's pushing the Order towards."

I paused. Stared at him.

"My gun is in the holster under my right arm."

"What?"

"My only other weapon. Take it, if you think I'll attack you."

I reached tentatively for it with my free hand, watching carefully for any other sign of movement from the man. But Pitcairn remained completely still, his expression passive but anxious, his hands flat against the tile.

My fingers brushed against metal. The gun was indeed there. I took it out, made sure the safety was still on, and slipped it into my waistband.

"You want to help my father," I clarified, speaking slowly.

"Yes. And in doing so, it seems I will be assisting the Assassins as well." He shook his head faintly. "Ah, I never thought the day would come. But Haytham is a great and capable Grand Master, one I would follow to the ends of this earth."

He spoke with conviction I'd never heard in Hickey or Church, or even Charles Lee. I hesitated for only a moment longer before I carefully, carefully stood and stepped away. I put the heel of my shoe on his sword as Pitcairn got to his feet as well. He spat a wad of blood on the floor before he turned back to me.

Pitcairn nodded to his weapon. I pressed my foot more firmly against it.

"I'm not going to attack you with it," he said, exasperated. "Now hurry! The longer we stall, the more time Birch has to act!"

Birch. Where was he? I cast my gaze around the hall, but wide as it was, there was still barely enough room for all of the Assassins and the three - two now, perhaps, if Pitcairn kept his word - to fight. My Assassin brothers were taking care of Biddle; or at least Stephane and Jacob were. Clipper was fending off a few stray security guards at the other end of the hall, while Jaime patrolled the opposite side.

I wouldn't be of any help to them. There wasn't enough space, and I would only get in the way. But maybe there was something else I-

I stopped looking around the hall. Because I could see Haytham then, on his knees, grasping at the patch of blood that was spreading across his shoulder.

He wasn't looking at me. But Haytham was alive.

I looked back to Pitcairn. He was wiping blood from the corner of his mouth again. I must've rammed him so hard that he bit his tongue.

That almost made me smile.

Still, I nudged the sword in his direction. It came up short - he'd have to approach me to get it, and I was still holding the knife in my hand.

"If I see you turning on-"

"I know, Connor. I understand. I don't doubt your ability to handle yourself. But let me prove my words to you."

Pitcairn took a few cautious steps forward. I moved back and let him take his sword.

I was going to wait to see what he would do: stab me in the back, or stay loyal to his word? But a terrible shout rose behind us, louder than the din of the fight.

" _BIRCH_!"

Haytham. I ran in his direction without a second thought. I thought I could hear Pitcairn following behind me, but it didn't matter; in that moment, he was the last person on my mind.

I reached him first. Haytham was holding his bleeding arm with his free one, and he was pushing himself to his feet. The anger and hatred were clear in his eyes; burning, raw. His teeth were bared, and he was hissing curses through them.

"Wait," I said, reaching to grab his uninjured shoulder. But my father was blind to me; he only had eyes for Birch, for the man standing across from us with a smug grin on his face.

"Haytham," he said, shaking his head. He sounded like he was speaking to a child. "I had great respect for you once. But you've lost your way, and we can't allow you to misguide any more of our Templars."

Haytham managed something of a dry smile. "I think you're referring to yourself."

"I have a vision."

"One that will lead the Order to ruin."

They were  _still_ arguing. I longed to take my knife and run it through Birch's throat, to silence him forever – but this was my father's fight. He let me settle my debts with Charles Lee. I had to allow him the same with Birch.

For now, at least. Birch was the one who killed my mother, after all, and I had a few words of my own that I wanted to exchange with him.

Birch's eyes flicked to Pitcairn. "What do you think, John? What do you have to say about all of this?"

"I am here to support Haytham," he said without missing a beat. "He has changed, certainly – but I understand where these changes come from. He's not as malicious and misguided as you make him out to be, Reginald. And he hasn't betrayed the Templars; he still has a vision of his own for a more peaceful and controlled world. And I will follow it."

The color drained from Birch's face. Haytham turned to face Pitcairn as well. The anger in his expression was replaced by relief.

"Well. I certainly wasn't expecting this from you. But very well. If you insist on this as well, then…"

Birch was still holding the gun in his hand. He started to raise it.

I pushed past Haytham and ran headlong for Birch. I thought I could hear my father's protests, but they were faint, muffled behind the pound of blood in my ears.

Birch readjusted his aim so the barrel of his gun was pointed toward me. I pushed myself to run faster, faster – I didn't think I'd make it, I could see his finger twitching on the trigger, I-

A shot rang out behind me. Birch's eyes went wide and he dropped the gun. It clattered to the floor as a red stain appeared on his upper chest, close to the junction where his shoulder met his arm.

"Now we're even," I heard Haytham say.

I slammed into Birch. The knife was still in my hand, and I tried to shove it into his stomach – but he was still alert, still unbelievably fast. He grabbed it, wrapped his fingers around the blade. He tried to shove me away, but I pushed back until he was against the wall and blood was dripping down his hands.

"Even if you and your merry band escape today, you will still be eradicated," he said, loud enough for only me to hear. "The Templar Order is even more powerful than you could ever imagine."

"Just because you don't see us doesn't mean we aren't there."

"Oh, truly? You can't lie to me. I have the reports, I have the information. I'm in an even higher position than your father. There are almost no Assassins left. You are finished."

"You know absolutely  _nothing_ about the Assassins."

"That's what you think."

Birch suddenly shoved against me, hard, and I stepped back to regain my balance. He took the opportunity to land a punch against my gut. I staggered, winded and gasping, and he grabbed my throat.

"We allowed the Assassins a measure of mercy last time," Birch said as he squeezed. "But I won't allow it again. This will be your last stand."

"Not mine. Yours."

I stabbed my knife into the underside of his arm. Birch howled with pain as he released my neck, and I went to stab him again, again, over and over-

Haytham stopped me before I could. He put a hand on my shoulder, and my knife came to a halt in midair, mere inches from Birch's chest.

I stared back at him. "Don't-"

He engaged his own hidden blade. And nodded to me.

It was satisfying beyond belief to feel the blade of my knife slipping into Birch's abdomen – to see the twist of his face, the way he stared back at us, the way he looked down to see a knife in his stomach and another in his chest.

Haytham's voice was soft when he spoke. "It's over, Reginald. It's finally over."

Birch's mouth moved, but no words came out. He gurgled pitifully and stared at us.

I stepped back as Birch slid to the ground. Haytham joined me, his hand unconsciously reaching for the bloodied spot on his arm. His mouth was a thin, pained line, but the anger left his eyes and he seemed…oddly peaceful.

"It's over," he said again, more to himself than anyone else this time.

"Not yet," I said. "We still have to get out of here. And Biddle-?"

"Taken care of," Stephane answered me. I looked over my shoulder and saw them standing there, bloody and scratched but none the worse for wear. How long were they watching our struggle with Birch?

"Were you hurt anywhere? Stabbed?" Haytham asked me. "Your throat?"

"It's fine. But your shoulder-"

Haytham scoffed. "I've survived much worse. The bleeding is already staunched – I'll work on treating it further once we're to safety."

"We'll go for the delivery docks, as planned. We have transport waiting there," Jacob said. He glanced at Pitcairn. "Are you planning on saving him too, Connor?"

"I'm…" I hesitated, but Haytham straightened up and took control.

"John," he said to his fellow Templar, "I want you to get in contact with William. Maybe Hickey as well. Tell them what happened here."

"Of course, sir. What about Charles?"

My father paused, averted his gaze. "Don't tell him anything. Not yet. I'll get in contact with him when the time is right."

"May I ask what you're planning to do…?"

"I have a lot to take care of. I'll speak with you again when I'm better prepared," he said. "Abstergo will be in chaos until they get things sorted here. And I want no part of it. Not anymore. But I won't stop being a part of the Order."

Pitcairn looked like he wanted to protest. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and sighed quietly.

"I trust you, Haytham," he finally said. "You have your own ways, but you've always been loyal to the Order. You have the right ideas."

Haytham took his hand from his shoulder and gripped Pitcairn's arm. "Thank you. For everything."

Pitcairn clasped his own hand over Haytham's. "I'll see you soon."

"All right, enough of this," Clipper said. "Let's get out of here before anything else goes wrong. Jacob, Jaime – you know where the docks are, right?"

Haytham replied before the others could. "I do. Come with me."

"…We're not really letting the Grand Master go back with us, are we?"

"We can talk about this later, Clipper," I said. "For now, the most important thing is to get back to Achilles, and-"

Haytham suddenly cursed and shoved me hard. Clipper shouted, and I saw Jacob running toward us. His expression was one of surprise and anger.

I caught myself and stumbled. Haytham was standing in front of me, his hidden blade engaged again and dripping blood. Not mine – not yet, anyway.

But he was looking over me. Behind me. Why? He tried to push me out of the way again, but I wouldn't let him.

Birch? How could he still be alive?

I let the hidden blade slide from my own gauntlet and started to turn.

Not quickly enough, though. I heard the gunshot from behind me. And then the red-hot pain when the bullet smacked into my hip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANOTHER CLIFFHANGER SIMILAR TO THE ONE IN THE LAST CHAPTER, YES, I KNOW, I'M SORRY. But the final battle can't end just like that without a few surprises...!
> 
> Again, thank you SO much for your comments and kudos on the last few chapters. I love and appreciate you guys. ;A; My university life is about to get SUPER hectic, so I'm trying to write more fun stuff like this before I have a ton of papers and projects due. Graduation's in the beginning of May, so they're cramming everything they can into these next few weeks, haha. And I don't want to have another month-long gap with cliffhangers like this!


	29. Father and Son

Connor's expression warped. He dropped to his hands and knees. Tried to push himself up. But his injured side refused to support his body and he fell back down.

Birch, meanwhile, was breathing hard behind him, his back still pressed to the wall, his eyes half-lidded and his arm shaking. He tried to keep it raised, tried to aim for Connor's head.

I ran. Reginald's mouth twisted into a pained smile when he saw me coming.

" _Now_ it's over," he said just before I slit his throat with my hidden blade. A curtain of blood pulsated from the wound and he slumped forward.

I allowed myself to pause only to press two fingers to his wrist; something I should have done before, after we stabbed him the first time. His heartbeat was all but gone now. Faded. Reginald Birch was gone at last.

"It will be okay, Connor. Just keep breathing. We're going to staunch the wound."

"I'm fine, just-"

I spun back to find Connor still kneeling, but he was surrounded by several of his Assassin companions. One of them was checking the bullet wound at his side.

"There's an exit wound. Clean. Which is good, because I won't have to do any major surgery."

"Is this something you can fix yourself?"

"Yes. I'll work on it on the way back to the safe house, but I can't do much until we get there. Damn, why did I leave so much of my equipment behind?"

"It's okay. I'll manage until then."

Clipper was standing nearby with his gun at the ready. "We really need to go," he said. "Before the reinforcements get here."

I sighed quietly. The Assassins were efficient, yes, but they were incredibly unorganized. It was a good thing they had me there with them.

"I can lead the way to the back of the building. I know the fastest route," I said, speaking loudly enough to be heard over their squabbling. "We have to move fast. Birch probably thought to alert extra security before he made his last stand here. There isn't much time."

Clipper looked like he was going to protest - but the one named Zenger cut him off.

"Show us," was all he said to me.

The group started to form a circle around Connor, who was still struggling to his feet. He was trying desperately not to show how much pain he was in, but I could see it in the way his face was strained, in the twist of his lips and the furrow of his brow.

"Here," I said, slipping my arm around his back. I supported his weight against my side and helped him stand.

Connor didn't look in my direction. "Thank you, but this really isn't necessary."

I loosened my grip ever so slightly. "Very well, then. Run along after your friends. Try not to fall, because I certainly won't be there to catch you."

He huffed quietly at that, but at least it stopped his whining.

"Sir."

It was Pitcairn. I looked impatiently in his direction.

"Go ahead of me and speak with William and Hickey. Please."

"Yes. I was just... Be safe."

"We will see each other again soon, John. Take care."

The Assassins waited for us at the end of the hall. I forced myself to move slowly for Connor; he was limping, but his breathing was strained. If he pushed himself too hard, he might exacerbate the wound and bleed out.

And I couldn't lose him like that. Not after I'd already lost everything and everyone else.

I tightened my grip around his shoulders - even though it made the bullet wound in mine burn like hellfire - and helped him forward.

"That way," I said, nodding to another corridor farther along. "Take the door at the very end. It will lead us to the delivery docks. Do you have someone waiting for you there?"

"Yes. Achilles said there would be a van to collect us."

"Good."

The man who took the time to patch Connor's wound slowed until he was walking just a few steps ahead of us.

"You have been a great help, Mr. Kenway, but... Are you really planning on going with us?"

"I want to see to it that my son is taken care of."

"I understand that, but we can't allow a Templar at the safe house. Especially a-"

"A Grand Master. I'm aware," I said, terse. "But I'm afraid you're going to have to swallow your pride for now. Don't worry - I have no plans to decimate your little brotherhood here and now, if that's what you're so worried about. Both of our organizations have much more important things to worry about."

His response was firm. "I still cannot allow it. Trust us to treat Connor's injury. He will decide whether or not he wants to get in contact with you again."

"I refuse to abandon him now. Not after everything that's happened. Everything I lost. I  _refuse_."

Something in my voice made the man stop. I felt Connor hesitate beside me as well, but I continued to pull him along.

"I..."

"Let him come with us," Connor suddenly said. "I'll talk to Achilles when we get to the safe house. And I will keep an eye on Haytham myself."

His friend was shaking his head. "Connor, you're in no condition to-"

"I trust him."

"...Then I will trust your judgment. But I'll be watching him closely."

"Thank you."

It was a day of surprises, indeed. My former mentor was dead by my own hand and I was helping a group of Assassins escape from the Abstergo building. If someone had approached me only yesterday and told me this would happen, I might have laughed in their face.

But no one was laughing today.

Connor's friends opened the heavy delivery dock doors and held them for us. Connor tried to push himself to limp faster; not a good idea, because I heard him take a low, sharp breath.

"Don't overdo it," I told him.

"I'm  _not._ "

Stubborn boy. At least he didn't need to be carried – though I think he'd rather crawl his way out of Abstergo than allow his Templar father to carry him.

The air outside was crisp and wonderfully cool. Snow was still falling, but it was light. Good. There would be no problems driving out of the city; assuming, of course, that Achilles and his Assassins were smart enough to set their hiding places as far away from the Templar headquarters as possible.

The white van parked near the curb was being manned by only two people. A young woman threw open the back doors and ushered us closer with a hasty wave of her hand.

"Hurry," she said. "A security group already came through a few minutes ago."

"Did Achilles send you?" Connor asked her.

"A British contact, actually. He recommended us to Achilles."

I helped Connor into the back of the van. It was a slow and painful process, what with his injured hip and my bad shoulder. In the end, the young Assassin (I assumed) woman wound up hoisting him in as easily as if he was a sack of feathers, leaving me to suffer the indignity of relying on – who else? – Clipper to support my good shoulder.

Benches lined the back of the van. Connor tried to settle on one of them, but he couldn't seem to find a position comfortable enough for his hip. The pain in my arm was bad enough, but I could hardly imagine what the boy was going through.

"Lie down," I told him.

"Wh-"

"Don't question me. Just lie down. Take the stress off your hip."

Connor scowled – but, thankfully, he obeyed.

"Does that work?" I asked, probably with a bit more smug satisfaction in my tone than necessary.

Connor settled himself into a more comfortable position. "It's a little better."

"The two of you aren't from the east coast chapter, are you?" one of Connor's Assassins asked as we closed the doors and locked them. The woman motioned to her driver, who started to pull out of the delivery docks.

"No. We're from the southern branch." She nodded to the driver again with a jerk of her chin. "This is Gérald, and I'm Aveline."

"Connor," my son said, reaching out to shake her hand. The other Assassins took turns introducing themselves, but I was too busy thinking over the identity of her British contact to respond. There were plenty of British Assassins; it could have been any of them who spoke with her. It was pretentious of me to assume that-

It took me a moment to notice that the others were staring at me. Waiting.

"What?" I asked, rather gracelessly.

"This is Haytham," Connor said, his expression somewhere between exasperation and amusement.

"My apologies," I said.

Aveline's smile turned wry. "Haytham Kenway, I assume? Mr. Grand Master himself, hm? You keep interesting company, Connor."

"He's pretty harmless. He won't cause you any trouble."

"I can speak for myself,  _thank_ you," I said, shooting a glare in his direction. Connor returned it with a dry half smile.

The back of the van settled into an uneasy silence, save for the rumble of the engine and the gentle roar of traffic outside. I wished that there were windows – anything for me to look at, aside from my own folded hands or the dour faces of the Assassins around me. Aveline sat with her legs crossed, surveying the crowd around her.

"There were supposed to be several others in your party," she said quietly. "Are they…?"

Connor's face fell. "They…didn't make it."

"I'm sorry."

He nodded once, and this time the silence that settled over us was stifling and heavy. I would have done anything to escape the confines of that van.

When the driver finally spoke up, his voice was quiet and anxious.

"Um, Aveline," he said, "we have a…small problem."

"What's wrong?"

"Several cars have been following us for a while now. I think they might be from Abstergo."

"Of course they are," she muttered. "Have you tried to lose them?"

"For quite a while now, yes."

A smile slipped across her face. "We're going to have to be a bit more aggressive, aren't we?"

Gérald returned her grin. "It seems we will."

The van suddenly swerved to the left. My bad shoulder hit the wall and I made a sound like a strangled cat, much to the delight of the other Assassins.

"Get off the main roads," Aveline said.

"I don't know the roads here well enough to-"

"Let me help. I live here, I know this place like the back of my hand," Clipper said. He vaulted into the passenger's seat – or did his best, given that the van was swerving into another side alley. This time I managed to brace myself before I slid across the bench.

Wonderful. Even with Birch dead and half their forces decimated, the Templars still fought on. This was probably the first time – and hopefully the last – that I was irritated by their persistence.

"Duck!" the French-Canadian Assassin shouted. I bent forward with my hands over my neck – and the window behind me blew out with a magnificent crash not a second later. Glass showered the bench and stuck in my hair.

Connor's voice rose over the din. "Haytham?"

"I'm fine."

"Keep your head down," Aveline said when I started to look up. "They've given up being subtle."

"Goddamned persistent bas-"

Another set of gunshots rang out from the cars behind ours. Most of them seemed to miss, but a few hit the sides of the van. Metal crunched, tires spun – but we kept on course. Gérald seemed timid, but he was surprisingly skilled behind the wheel. I was coming to respect the man more and more with each passing moment.

"Okay. One of them crashed trying to get out of the alley," Gérald said.

I saw Aveline nod from my periphery. "Good. How many left?"

"Only one, but it's fast."

"Not fast enough to outdrive Gérald Blanc."

"They rarely are."

How in the world did my father – if he was indeed the British contact – come to meet these people? I'd have to tell Connor to ask him next time they spoke.

The van's tires squealed. It felt as though we were spinning, but my head was still down. I couldn't see a thing.

Something hit the ground with a thud. Connor cried out in the next moment.

I opened my eyes again and, ignoring Aveline's warning, looked up. Connor was lying on the floor of the van, his eyes squeezed shut and his fists curled against his hip.

"I'm fine," he hissed between his teeth. "It's fine."

Aveline and the French-Canadian Assassin started to move toward him – but I was already on my hands and knees at Connor's side. I tried to flip him over so his bad hip was in the air, but he refused to be moved.

"Don't touch it," he said, his voice a pained growl.

"You're going to bleed out in the van if I don't."

" _Don't_ touch it."

"For God's sake, Connor, I'm not letting you die in the back of a van."

"Haytham-"

Another volley of bullets slammed into the windows in front of us. I threw myself over Connor as the glass burst and shattered. Shards of it fell across my back.

Aveline shouted over the noise. "Is everyone okay?"

There were scattered responses. I pushed myself up slowly, carefully, alert for the sound of gunfire.

"Haytham," Connor said, but I barely heard him.

" _Dad_."

"What?" I asked. "Are you hurt?"

"No. But I was going to ask if you were."

Gérald took another sharp turn. I held Connor still for a moment; and although it looked like he wanted to push me away, he didn't. His gaze was surprisingly passive.

"I'm all right," I said, even though the pain in my shoulder was agonizing.

"Just… Don't bother trying to move me. I'll fall off again."

"Very well."

"…You can sit back down now."

"Who will keep you from getting yourself killed?"

Connor snorted. I couldn't tell if it was from amusement or not.

I looked up, surveyed the action around us. Aveline and the French-Canadian were poised near the windows with guns in their hands, though they weren't firing them. Clipper was shouting instructions to poor Gérald. The Abstergo cars… Well, I couldn't quite see them anymore. They were getting farther away as we ventured deeper into the city.

"We've almost lost them," Gérald said. "Clipper knows some good side routes."

Clipper puffed out his chest. One of the other Assassins – the one who'd taken care of Connor's wound in Abstergo – knelt close by.

"You're all right, Connor?" he asked.

My son's response came from between his teeth again. "Yeah."

"You landed on your bad hip. I'm hoping it didn't make the wound worse."

"We'll see when we get to the safe house."

"Indeed." The man nodded solemnly before he looked to me. "And your shoulder, Haytham? It looks like the gash on your cheek will be fine."

I touched the side of my face. The wound still stung, but the blood there felt crusted and dry beneath my fingertips.

"I'll manage just fine."

"…I could take a look at the injury when we get back to the safe house. The bullet's probably still in there."

"Who are you?"

The man held out his hand. "Jaime Colley. I'm a doctor when I'm not running around in the company of Assassins," he said with a short chuckle.

I took his hand and shook it. "The Assassins are lucky to have you. Especially after today."

"I try to do what I can."

Aveline suddenly fired off a few shots from the back window. She ducked her head a moment later, but no return fire came. The French-Canadian followed in suit – though he looked far more excited about a gunfight than anyone had any right to be. The man was smiling wildly and looked like he was having the time of his life.

"They seem to be out of bullets… or they're reloading," Aveline said to us.

"And they're too far away to really shoot," the French-Canadian added. "You're losing them, Gérald!"

"Good," Gérald said with an unnerved smile. "Just a bit farther, then. And we can get back on course."

These Assassins were absolutely crazy.

But…if I had to admit, it was all a bit refreshing, in a way. Though I would never admit that out loud.

"We'll be back soon," Jaime said, more to himself than anyone else. He took his seat back on one of the benches, but I stayed with Connor to keep him from sliding across the floor like a sack of bricks.

"How far is the safe house?" I asked him.

"I'm not sure. They must have moved by now."

"An hour or so out of the city. But with Gérald's driving, we'll likely make it sooner," Aveline said.

"That's good," I replied quietly. "That's very good."

* * *

 

Jaime spirited my son away as soon as we arrived at the safe house. The others followed them inside, but I thought it best to wait out in the front yard until someone else broke the news to Achilles. I wasn't quite ready for my reunion with the old man yet. And besides that, I had some other business to take care of.

I had an important call to make. So I borrowed Connor's phone before he was taken and flipped to Edward Kenway's name in the contacts list.

The dial tone chirped on the other end. I swallowed past a lump that had suddenly formed in the back of my throat. When was the last time I talked to my father? So many years ago...

But it was a female voice that greeted me.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Jenny."

"Haytham? Sorry, I didn't recognize your number. Did you get a new one?"

"No. I'm borrowing my son's phone."

"Ah. Thought Dad might pick up if he didn't see your number, hm?"

"I was hoping."

Jenny offered me a halfhearted laugh. "You sound exhausted. What's wrong? Babysitting today?"

"It's...been a long day," I said, pinching the bridge of my nose between my fingers. "I was hoping to talk with our father, actually. Is he around?"

"Yes. This is my weekly visit; someone has to make sure this place is clean. His phone was going off and he wasn't around to grab it. I'll get him." A pause. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I am."

"All right. Your funeral."

Footsteps on the other end. Jenny calling for our father, and then a muffled conversation. There was a considerable silence before Edward finally spoke up.

"Hello, Haytham."

Well, well. He didn't sound angry. Yet.

"Hello."

"I think I know what this is about."

"You sent the southern Assassins, didn't you?"

"That I did. I heard about the east coast group's infiltration plan through the grapevine and thought they could use some help. Aveline and Gérald are some of the best, and they were close by. What happened?"

I explained the situation to him as succinctly as possible. Edward listened without comment, but I heard his huff of frustration when I told him about speaking with Connor.

"I warned him about all of this," Edward admitted. "But...you know...it sounds like things turned out all right. For both of you."

"This hasn't been the most ideal father and son bonding situation, but I suppose it did."

He laughed at that. "So it seems," he said. "So... It sounds like you have plans for after today?"

"Sort of. I don't know." I put a hand to my forehead again, taking care not to brush against the gash on my cheek. "Today was...a disaster, but it was something that would have happened eventually, I suppose."

"You plan to stay with the Order?"

"Yes. But not with Abstergo. Not with them ever again."

"I see. That's good. They're an awful bunch." Edward fell quiet for a moment. "And Connor?"

"I assume he will remain an Assassin."

"Ah, no. That's not what I was asking. Will you stay in contact with him?"

"...I hope to. We made it through this much, after all."

And if Connor disappears from my life, I'll have no one left, what with his mother gone and part of my Order dispersed. But I didn't say that to Edward. Didn't need to sound as piteous as I felt.

"Mhm. He sounds like a good lad."

"He is."

We both fell silent then, but it wasn't as tense as our previous conversations. I was pleasantly surprised by how well it was going, honestly; I'd expected more harsh words and yet another argument, but so far we were both acting like grown adults.

"I'm, ah, glad you called to let me know how it went. I have a feeling Aveline or Gérald might be calling with their report next," Edward said. "Tell Connor I said hello. And...both of you take care of yourselves."

"We will."

He hung up after that. I shut Connor's phone off and slipped it in my front pocket.

And I sighed. The adrenaline rush from the escape and the car chase was wearing off, and I felt weary to the bone. Few things sounded more appealing than a hot shower and a long nap.

But there was still work to be done. I had to speak with Achilles, and Connor, and...

I didn't know. Should I leave? Stay for a while longer? I certainly wasn't welcome in the company of these Assassins, and I didn't feel inclined to be with them any longer than I absolutely had to.

The front door of the safe house - a nice little cabin tucked away in a mountain valley, secluded and quiet - opened. It was Jaime.

"Achilles wants to see you," he said.

The moment of truth. I stood, brushed the snow from my coat, and followed him inside.

"Connor is much better," he told me while he led me through the front room. The tiny, one-story building was old and looked as though it had been abandoned for some time; but there were small touches here and there, and a certain warmth to the place that made me think someone was putting more time into it now that it was occupied.

"He'll be all right?"

"Yes. It was a clean shot, no bullet fragments or signs of infection. But he'll need to stay off his feet for a while. I don't want him reopening the wound now that I've worked on it."

"A good call. But are you sure he'll listen?"

Jaime chuckled. "No, I think that might be asking for too much."

We stopped in what appeared to be the living room. There was a fire going, and Achilles was sitting near it with his cane propped between his legs. He looked up at me with no friendliness in his eyes.

"Thank you, Jaime," he said, nodding to the Assassin. Jaime left us without another word.

Neither of us spoke for some time. He didn't gesture for me to sit, so I stayed standing with my hands clasped behind my back.

"Well," he said after a good minute, "I never thought I would see you again. Especially in a situation like this."

"And neither did I."

"Connor tells me that you have not left the Templars."

"No."

"But you did help the Assassins."

"Our interests were in agreement."

"Mm." He turned away from the fire to stare at me again. "Ideally, I would like to thank you for helping, but..."

"You still don't trust me. Understandable. I feel the same about the majority of your Assassins."

Achilles's smile was humorless. "And yet you helped them anyway. But I assume it was because of Connor."

"...Yes."

"What do you want from us, Haytham? Shelter? Payment of some sort? I'm afraid I can do neither. You are still a Templar, and we are still Assassins."

"That doesn't mean that we always have to be enemies."

"But it does. Connor may trust you, and he may have forgiven you, but I can't. Not after I watched you and your men slaughter my friends. We lost Dobby and a few others today too - all to your Templars."

"I know that," I said. "Honestly, I... The only one I want to stay in contact with is Connor."

"That is up to him."

"I know," I said again, more irritably this time. "And I will leave as soon as I've spoken with him. You have my word."

Achilles was quiet again. But he nodded and waved me off.

"I know how stubborn you are. Connor gets it from you, I think. And a good dose from his mother as well," he said, shaking his head back and forth. "Connor is in the room down the hall. Second to the left."

"Thank you."

I turned away, and Achilles said no more. He was a hard man, but reasonable, I supposed. But he did a decent enough job of raising and training Connor, who seemed to hold him in high regard.

I found Connor's room and was pleased to see that he was alone. I'd had more than enough of the Assassins for a lifetime, and didn't feel like dealing with any of their lip while I tried to speak with my son. I settled into one of the chairs beside his bed with a tired sigh.

"Has Jaime looked at your arm yet?" were the first words out of his mouth.

"No. I might leave after this, so he won't have the chance to. I've done the best I can with it anyway."

"You should have him check. He's a good doctor. He'll take care of it."

"Hm. Maybe."

Connor sat up a little straighter; and though he seemed to be feeling somewhat better, he was still wincing with each small movement. It would be a while before he'd be ready to move normally again. How long could Achilles keep him cooped up in this bed, I wondered? Not very long, if he was anything like his mother.

"Don't put any stress on your hip, and it will heal well enough for you to keep running around with your Assassin friends," I told him.

He smirked in my direction. "Got any more fatherly advice for me?"

"Don't do anything stupid."

"Pot calling the kettle black."

I wanted to laugh, but I was so, so tired. All I could manage was a small grin.

Connor's expression sobered after a moment. "Achilles asked you to leave, didn't he?"

"Yes. But I was planning to regardless. There's plenty to be done and no time to waste."

"Where will you go?"

"Hmm... I'm not sure yet. I can't go back to my home, so... Maybe I'll just drive. I'll find something."

"But you'll stay in touch."

I peeked at my son. He was staring at me for once, trying to meet my gaze.

"If that's what you'd like," I said, hoping I didn't sound nearly as relieved as I felt.

It didn't seem to work, because Connor gave me a small smile.

"I would. But you have to keep your word."

"I can do that. I'll be getting a new phone and number, but..."

"Then call me with it when you can."

"I will. Oh." I took his phone from my front pocket and handed it back. He grabbed it and stared at the screen.

"You called Edward."

"Yes. I wanted to ask him a few questions."

"Did you...sort things out with him?"

"I don't think I ever will, to be perfectly honest. We're both too goddamned hardheaded for our own good," I said. "But give him a call when you have a chance. And speak with your aunt. She's been wanting to meet you."

"I will. I can do that in the next few days."

"If anything happens, you can count on them. They'll support you."

"Okay.

"And... You can count on me as well. I'll be here, even if I'm not...well,  _here._ You know what I mean."

"I do."

What would a real father do to show his son he cares? Should I put a hand on his shoulder? Give him one of those awkward one-armed hugs? A pat on the head? Some soft words?

But mine and Connor's relationship wasn't quite like that. And I was fine with that -  _we_  were fine with that. We had time to cultivate it now, to let it grow and flourish.

It would be difficult with the both of us separated. But it could work. I'd make sure of it.

I stood again. A glance at the window behind Connor's head told me that the snow had stopped and the drive out of the mountains would be relatively smooth.

"You're going?" Connor asked.

"Yes. Maybe I can get a ride from Aveline and Gérald. They seem to like me a bit more than your other friends."

"I'm sure they won't mind if you tell them you're Edward Kenway's son."

"Perhaps. We'll see."

"...Thanks, by the way. For...everything."

"The same to you."

"It's been an adventure."

"It certainly has. Thank you for dragging me into it."

I met Connor's gaze again, one last time before I left the room.

"See you,  _Dad_ ," he said with that familiar, derisive - teasingly so, of course - tone.

"Another time, son."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW... All right, I can't believe it's done. I'm feeling incredibly bittersweet about this, because I've been working on it since... December 2012, according to ffn. Right after the game came out! I apologize for taking a year and a half to write 29 chapters, haha. But I had so much fun writing this and working with the AU. 
> 
> First off, I wanted to thank you all so, so much. I know I say this in just about every author's note, but I really, truly mean it. I appreciate every single kudo and comment, every message you've sent about the story... Everything. It means so much to me that I can write something I love and so many people enjoy it. It's been a wonderful journey and I'm sad to see it end. I have tons more AU ideas for AC3 though...so I'll be back, haha. And I promised to write a follow up to another AU I posted anyway.
> 
> Again, thank you guys so much!


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